


He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

by grandfatherclock



Series: Hey Nonny, Nonny! [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Body Horror, Community: widojest love, F/M, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, explicit for widojest smut in chapter four
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2020-07-20 09:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: His voice wasn't as smooth as it had been when that archmage was with him for that first meeting, but he seemed morereal,more like apersonand not a perfect dream meant to allure Essik into becoming complacent with dunamantic secrets. He said that hecouldn'tbreak up with that woman, like his love for one Jester Lavorre was as assured as the laws of nature that ordered the world.Essikgrinned. The Krynpridedthemselves on upending the laws of nature, didn’t the lord of the Zemni Fieldsknow?





	1. Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Winter of 835 P.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating will change in future chapters. Trigger warning for homophobic remarks made by an antagonistic character and references to past child abuse in this chapter.

Bren exhales through his teeth, and stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is slicked back, coiffed and perfect—in the soft hue the arcane lights emit, it seems to _shine_ , and when his lips quirk up into a neutral smile, his entire face _twists_ , turning himself into this perfect creature, someone who could be a lord, someone who could be _picked_ to be a lord. His blackened, calloused fingers— _ringed_ , he thinks, feeling that cool band against the warmth of his skin—are hidden in gloves that are embroidered and pretty and a little too soft, but they match his coat. That’s what Essik mentioned when he picked them out and offered them to Bren, having seen Bren ruminate on the choice for a good couple of minutes. _They match your coat, husband_.

_Husband_. Husband. Bren still can’t quite get used to that word in Essik’s smug, accented voice. It makes his stomach drop, and it makes him remember Ikithon digging his fingers into Bren’s arm. It reminds him of Jester’s hair done up, and her brown skin glowing under those pretty lights, her bright eyes following his even footsteps. It makes him think of Essik’s soft fingers intertwined with his own rough, blackened ones, his face free of judgement but that doing _nothing_ for the squirming embarrassment he felt as his eyes flitted to the crowd watching him. It reminds him of Jester’s gentle smile when she turned to look at him before she left the throne room, her face sad and forgiving. _Oh, Schatz_ , he thought then, and he tightened his grip on Essik’s hand to stop himself from running after her.

His _husband_ hums under his breath beside him as he adjusts his own mantle, and Bren’s attention is drawn away from his own reflection. He watches the inky blackness of Essik’s cloak shimmer with the radiance of stars with curious eyes. _He’s a natural_ , Bren thinks, both envious and _not_ —usually he can comport himself just as well, but he’s a little at a loss right now, his gut all strange and hesitant and squirming. It’s the first public event he’s going to see Master Ikithon at, but _why_ is he so off-kilter? _Pathetic_ , he thinks dispassionately. It’s just a Winter’s Crest gala, it isn’t… why is he... Bren makes a slight face, and Essik catches him looking at him. “What?” He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly.

Bren looks away, and clenches his hands into fists. “You like nice.” His tone is soft. _Try_ , he reminds himself, and he forces his gaze to meet Essik’s own again. A smile plays Bren’s face like this is natural. It _is_ natural, he _is_ a natural. He remembers Master Ikithon’s hands on his shoulders, him telling Bren to straighten his back, to not fiddle with his shirt as he thought of things to say to fill the pauses. Bren could do this the hard way, could be bitter and lash out at Essik—it would be _easy_ , and he’s done this all this life. This is how he met Jester Lavorre—he got a subordinate to find someone to clean up his mess. He… he promised to be better, though. He can’t give up on that so easily. _This is the promise you made her. Try._

_Gottverdammt_ , everything was so much more _straight-forward_ when he wasn’t going to change, wasn’t going to improve. He _resists_ the urge to run a hand over his face. He gave up his freedom for a beautiful freckled face, for curly hair tied up in a messy ponytail. For a light in the darkness, for the painter who didn’t really have a chance, who got arrested over some fucking _graffiti_. Bren Aldric Ermendrud gave her a chance, and that’s… that’s honourable, he thinks. He thinks that might’ve been honourable.

Essik blinks, snapping Bren’s attention back to him, and then gives Bren a practiced half-smile of his own. It looks _good_ on him—his careful brown eyes seem to brighten with this insincere but not malicious openness, and lips curve up pleasantly. He holds his head up high, and his styled white hair compliments his dark brown skin beautifully, making him seem near angelic. Those black layers, that silver mantle—it all suits him so _well_ , with this grace Bren only pretends at. He's… he's lucky Master Ikithon chose this man for him, not someone a little crueler, someone who could point out all the ways Bren is lacking. He's… really easy to pick apart up close, it's something Bren hates about himself. "Thank you." Essik’s voice rings through his thoughts, and he watches Bren for a moment before he puts down the pearled ring he was considering. "Is there anyone on your side I should work particularly hard to please?"

Bren stills for a moment, wondering if this is some kind of _test_ , some kind of implicit judgement on _him_ for not being able to do what he needs to do alone, but Essik is raising his eyebrows like this is… like he's genuinely asking. Like he _wants_ to help. "… Just a Winter's Crest gala," Bren sighs. This entire week servants have been furiously cleaning and resetting the furniture, putting up pretty arcane lights and enchanting candles that glow an ethereal white to float along the halls. It's been a little too much, but Essik enjoyed watching them be set up, his assistant following miserably behind him and their dark cloaks trailing behind them as the candles drifted along the arched hallways. _This really isn't so impressive_ , Bren said then, watching Essik's hand be revealed as he reached out and touched a candle passing him. The candle shifted slightly but continued on its path.

Essik rolled his eyes at Bren, crossing his arms—the movement made his cloak adjust and the radiant stars in his folds glitter. _The magic is rudimentary_ , he agrees, his voice kind of haughty, _but Kryn don't celebrate Winter's Crest._ Bren twisted his lips to hide his momentary amusement at how _insulted_ Essik sounded when Bren suggested he found this enchantment impressive _. I'm just… interested_. His shoulders stiffened, and he looked at Bren almost reproachfully with his jaw shifting. Lythir watched him, fingers curling to grip his staff harder.

Bren sighed. _No, I… appreciate your enthusiasm_. Essik tilted his head at that, his dark eyes almost _shining_. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Bren averted his gaze, clenching his jaw as he thought of Jester and how all this was all very much something he was forced into. He couldn't forget, he couldn't forget about _her_ , couldn’t forget by sinking into this lilting flirtation. He had to remember his responsibilities—Essik Theylas could have his home, and his hand, but Jester demanded Bren give _her_ his affections. They had been sitting on her porch, her hand not quite in his but their pinkies _almost_ touching, and she had leaned over, pressing the side of her face against his shoulder. _Promise me you'll love me. You can marry him but you have to love me_. She had sounded… gentle, with how her Nicodrani accent trembled over those words. Vulnerable.

_I promise_. His response had been immediate, _sure_. Bren thought of Jester's face then and averted his eyes from Essik, brusquely excusing himself and heading for his office. Essik looked after him for a moment before his own footfalls continued, and Bren ran his hands over his face when he closed the door behind him.

Essik stares at him now, and Bren resists the urge to clench his jaw. "You're my husband, and I want to help you," Essik says, slowly. Bren becomes too still when he says _husband_ , and Essik sighs, clearly noticing. _When did you get so easy to read?_ Bren snarls to himself in his head. "From a purely self-serving perspective, if you come off bad, _I_ come off bad, because we're tied now." The _whether you like it or not_ is implicit, as kind as Essik is being, and he tilts his head, clever eyes following Bren’s minute movements.

Bren stills for a moment before nodding his head, the movement more jerky than he would've preferred. "Be pleasant," he says, after a moment, and Essik smirks, crossing his arms. _I’m always pleasant_ , the shit-eating smile says, and it’s strange how… living with someone for months on end makes them familiar, no matter how much Bren didn’t intend it, no matter how much he wouldn’t have preferred it this way. "Just… whatever promises they try to consolidate out of you, be pleasant and don't fall for the bait. I'm sure you're practiced enough in this." He feels strange telling the fucking former Shadowhand to the Bright Queen to be _careful_ , but Essik notes.

"Right," he says airily. "I've already had well-meaning"—he rolls his eyes at _well-meaning_ , and Bren raises an eyebrow at that—"confidants try to _shock_ me with news about your supposed affair." Bren looks to him, trying to trace any bitterness in his expression, but Essik's lips are still pleasantly curved and his eyes considering, his face perfectly neutral. "You'd think being a former spymaster people would put more stock into me knowing what's going on in my own marriage. Vultures." His mild tone dips a _little_ into disgust, which makes Bren blink.

It's still… _strange_ , being open about this. He remembers that meeting he had with Imrae Theylas, her curly black hair strung up in beautiful pearls and cascading down her back. She looked so _elegant_ in her back dress that so perfectly complimented her dark brown skin and made her seem dipped in shadow. It was his second visit to their home in Rosohna, this one _without_ Master Ikithon sitting beside him and judging Bren’s every minute movement. Her eyes were dark and unimpressed on Bren, sitting there awkwardly with his hands clasped in his lap. His layers felt burdensome, smothering, and he focused on the sensation of sipping the tea to ground himself. _Break up with your mistress_ , Imrae said, her lilting voice very even. Jevan smiled beside her in his lovely black suit as he took a sip from his cup with an intricate Kryn-style geometric design.

… _I can't_. His voice sounded almost _rough_ , and Bren cleared his throat before shrugging, suddenly very _fucking_ grateful Ikithon didn't come to this meeting. Then again, he was pretty sure the reason this subject was broached at _all_ —the subject of one Jester Lavorre, who he was helplessly in love with—was _because_ his teacher didn't deign to visit. Bren couldn't deny Jester. Not to his husband, who sat with his arms crossed and his head tilted, a smile playing on his lovely lips. It wasn't fair, and Bren was trying harder now to _be_ fair. Essik deserved to know what the _fuck_ he was walking into.

_You don't deny you have one?_ The smile that was playing on Essik's lips widened, and Imrae looked slightly annoyed, leaning back on her black couch. She looked like she was about to interrogate this further, but then Essik gave her a _look_ that was both fond and also slightly begging, sitting languidly in his chair. Imrae pursed her lips, too dignified to roll her eyes, and Essik’s smile became genuine as he gazed at his mother.

It… it made Bren's heart clench slightly, and he averted his eyes. His own mother and he used to have a secret language _too_ —he could distinguish between her endeared shift of her jaw and her annoyed one. There was this slight difference between when she flared her nostrils out of frustration and out of worry, and she was… she was worried near the end. Near the end she was frightened out of her mind. He thinks maybe all mothers and sons have a secret language, and he lost his. Both the… the mother and the language. _I won’t lie to you about this_ , Bren says, taking a sip from his tea. _I'm… I'm sorry_. He genuinely was, no one deserves a man sick in love with someone else as a groom, but he wouldn't have inflicted himself on Essik if he had any other _fucking_ choice.

_About this_ , Essik repeated, and he seemed _amused_ by Bren’s apology. After a terse pause, Essik nodded, still seeming bemused, and Bren felt, with this sick feeling of dread, a weak smile crawl onto his own face. Like a fucking _mirror_ , he imitated Essik, and it’s—this is all so— _Good_ , said Essik gently. _I’m glad you won’t lie to me about your mistress, Lord Ermendrud_. The sick thing was, he genuinely seemed thankful.

Essik is saying something _now_ , and Bren _blinks_. He flushes with embarrassment as Essik pauses, raising an eyebrow, and his mind conjures images of Master Ikithon palming his forehead and letting out a short burst of necrotic energy when he thought Bren wasn't paying attention during a lesson, during training, swaying on his feet from _all the wounds the hounds left in him_. His entire body stiffens, xbut Essik simply walks over to him, reaching out and putting his hand on Bren's own gloved one on the bed. "Bren," Essik says, his face pleasant. He stills at Essik's touch. "There's something on _the_ tip of your tongue that you're keeping yourself from hissing out." Bren grimaces at that, hating that Essik reads him as easily as Bren can sometimes read him— _Marriage does that_ , he can picture Astrid saying, shaking her head—and Essik sighs, moving away his hand and readjusting the silver mantle he's wearing. His robes move as he does, and Bren watches the cool starry night in the folds for one traitorous moment.

Essik is still watching him, and Bren shifts his jaw. "My teacher will be watching you," he says, after a moment. He sounds so stiff and faltering, and for a painful second, he allows his thoughts to run manic, blend into one another without bracing pause, allows this truly repugnant unevenness in his own breath, allows his eyes to blink too fast, and _then_ —a smile. Bren remembers his training, remembers the breathing exercises, recalls the little rituals Astrid helped him through to calm him down before he _seduced_ , before he _threatened_ , before he _murdered_. These little exercises were something he perfected from all their fucking use that it all seems effortless, natural, in the moment to purposefully modulate his breathing, the act Bren is okay so convincing he tricks himself. A calm, collected smile spreads on Bren's face and Essik tilts his face, his own face becoming careful as he mirrors Bren’s stance. Calm, he feels _calm_. He’s letting this all blow out of proportion, it’s all going to be _fine._ “Master Ikithon will have his eyes on us.”

“… Alright.” Essik’s voice is soft, his eyes searching. He seems… troubled, despite his own composed demeanor, but that’s _absurd_. The implications of that are… bothersome, and so Bren elects to ignore them for the time being.

He stiffly squares his shoulders and gets up, walking over to Essik and offering a hand. _Make nice_ , Bren thinks, almost desperately. He remembers piling up burnt corpses, his clothes drenched with blood as Crownsguard swarmed past him to survey the damage. _You sold your soul for this_. His outstretched hand is still— _too still_ , he can hear Master Ikithon hiss, _it’s your tell, you’re always too still_ —and his smile is distant. His chin is tilted out, his jaw confidently set, and he’s _ready_ , he’s _complete_. The way his coat and his shirt stretch around his movement like a second skin is anchoring, keeping him from being sent adrift by Essik’s raised eyebrow. “I hope you enjoy your first Winter’s Crest,” he says, very cordially. His accent lilts over the words pleasantly, clipped and perfect in that Rexxentrum Zemnian.

There was a brief silence where Essik is still, and Bren stares at every microexpression flitting through his handsome face. Then, a hand comes out from the folds of his silky robes, reaching for Bren’s own. Essik’s hand isn’t gloved, and Bren stares at the gold ring that compliments his skin tone so brilliantly—and _fuck_ , Essik Theylas is radiant, and Bren is _lucky_ , gottverdammt, he’s so goddamn fucking _lucky_ Master Ikithon was so _thoughtful_. He nearly scowls to himself but catches it in the last second, and Essik’s gentle sigh makes Bren blink at him, tilting his head. “I’ll try to enjoy tonight, husband.” He tightens his hand on Bren’s gloved one, and begins to pull him out through the bedroom. “I hope _you_ do, too.” There’s something low about his voice, like he _means_ it.

Bren lets himself be pulled along, out, out, _out_ of his room that’s no longer _his_ room it’s _their_ room. It isn’t _his_ Winter’s Crest party, it’s _theirs_ , and Bren’s life isn’t his own either—he was _delusional_ , so fucking _stupid_ , for thinking—

Essik’s grip on him tightens and Bren meets his gaze for a moment before averting his eyes.

They go down the grand staircase.

* * *

_The manor is gorgeous_ , Bren thinks, holding a glass of wine he pretends to drink from. His servants did good work, and they would’ve been suitably punished if they _hadn’t_. The throne room is _dazzling_ , the chandeliers washing over the walls and paintings and people in a gentle orange hue— _like fire_ , Bren thinks pleasantly—and other arcane lights glitter up along the darker crevices of the roof like stars where there are shadows. There are tables set up, adorned in silk cloth and levitating just slightly off the floor, which with the floating candles evokes the feeling of Zemnian fairytales—vague, and enchanting, and strange. There are musicians on a raised platform to the side, and the lilting violins are a pleasant melody for Bren to focus on when he’s trying to avoid his own racing thoughts, trying to desperately keep that detached calm from his bedroom. People are dancing in the center of the room, pretty dresses and elegant black suits swishing alongside each other, insincere smiles and laughs that are just slightly off-key making Bren’s distracted gaze flit from face to face.

Lythir stands next to him, holding his elegant wooden staff with the wood curling around a small silver dodecahedron at the end. His long hair is tied back into a braid behind his head, a brilliant contrast against his dark skin, and his cloak cascades off his shoulders, making him look like a pretty shadow against all the colours the guests wear. Essik is talking to other Kryn ambassadors and officials he suggested Bren invite to the party a week ago, including a cousin of his, and Lythir normally _follows_ , which _means_ Essik asked him not to. Bren is unsure if it’s because he no longer trusts his assistant, or something else _entirely_. It’s all so _strange_ , and he stiffens, his arms crossing, as Lythir’s eyes flit to him and a polite smile graces his face. “Your home is splendid,” he says, his accented voice careful on each word.

“Danke,” Bren mutters. He looks away, seeing Master Ikithon talking to the Archmage of Antiquities, DeRogna. Ikithon’s gray hair glows like silver and his jaundiced skin looks _warm_ in this light, so different from how harsh he normally seems. His body is braced confidently, his own hand on his staff set with one end to the floor. Bren can’t see his face in this angle, but he’s been keenly aware of Master Ikithon’s gaze on him all night, assessing his performance, watching how he held Essik by the hand as he welcomed guests to the manor. They exchanged superficial pleasantries, but Master Ikithon’s every question was piercing, probing, pulling information out of him with deceptively benign questions— _Have his parents warmed up to you? How does his den treat you?_ —and a hand on his shoulder. It made Bren wince, and _then_ Master Ikithon told him when he was satisfied with the answers— _We have an understanding, the den has been welcoming_ , blatant _fucking_ lies—he whispered in Bren’s ear that he had something he needed to discuss later. Bren tried then not to grimace at feeling Ikithon’s breath against his skin. Lythir shifts in his seat, bringing Bren back to the present from his thoughts and making his gaze snap to the other man, and he gives him a languid smile. “It’s only a shame Essik’s parents couldn’t visit.”

Lythir sighs. “They send their regrets.” There is no wavering, no unnatural shift in his tone, so he’s most likely telling the truth—not that it particularly _matters_ to Bren why Imrae and Jevan couldn’t visit this facade of a gala—and Bren searches for the polite string of words that will reveal to him _why_ the fuck Lythir is _watching_ him. “Your home is beautiful, Lord Ermendrud.” His eyes flit up to the arcane lights that cluster like stars along the roof, and his contemplative gaze on them makes Bren cross his arms, clench his jaw. “You took Lord Theylas’ suggestion. It’s beautiful.”

Bren blinks. He remembers finding Essik standing by the balcony a couple nights ago, and Essik tilting his head to look at him, his face haughty—almost like he was _embarrassed_ being caught. _I love the stars_ , he murmured, his robes flowing like a rippling shadow behind him. _That’s why I liked the candles, husband_. His lips twisted into an almost _bitter_ smile. _Reminded me of home_. Bren exhales through his teeth as he recalls the shame making his heart stutter, made his hands clench and his nails dig into his palms. “It was easy,” he mutters. “As I mentioned that day, the magic is rudimentary.”

Lythir sighs. “I didn’t—it was appreciated. I’m sure he appreciated it.” He seems _very_ uncomfortable, his brown eyes studying the patterns of the silk cloth adorning their table, and Bren wonders _why he doesn’t fucking get up and leave and tend to his actual superior_ —

“My boy,” he hears, and immediately _stiffens_. Lythir stills beside him on the table, and then they both simultaneously get up, Bren turning to smile at Master Ikithon. His teacher stares at him with a distant smile, the white and gold of his robes seeming to glow in the arcane light. The folds of his clothes create ripples of shadow as he moves, the barest flick of his eyelashes deliberate and calculated, and Bren smiles, lips curling up in that way he knows is languid and unbothered. He doesn’t _understand_ this uncomfortable, squirming feeling in his gut at the sight of his teacher’s lips stretched into a smile, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. _Why are you so_ worried _?_ he thinks, annoyed with himself. “You look well,” Ikithon says, his words dragging slightly over his accent, ignoring Lythir completely. “Marriage suits you.” His thin lips quirk up slightly, widening his amused smile.

_A joke_ , Bren thinks numbly. He exhales in a short breath, like he’s also amused, and looks discreetly to Lythir in the corner of his eye. If he’s offended at all, he makes no indication, his only movement is his slightly tilted head, but _still…_ this isn’t some lowly guard, and Master Ikithon _knows_ this, what’s the _play_ here? Bren feels smothered between all these intentions, and he’s been off-kilter, off his game, all fucking night. He needs to _fucking_ step it up. “Danke, Master Ikithon,” he says, relieved his words aren’t stumbling over each other. “I’m not sure if you’ve had the opportunity to meet Lythir Olios, of Den Olios, but—”

“Never had the pleasure,” Master Ikithon cuts in, his eyes flitting to Lythir with a cool gaze. Bren resists the urge to wince at the interruption, suddenly remembering being young and Master Ikithon talking over him when he wasn’t satisfied with Bren’s speech. _You sound like a peasant, enunciate your vowels clearer._ Lythir’s hand tightens on the staff almost imperceptibly under the weight of Master Ikithon’s eyes on him, and Master Ikithon’s smile widens. “I trust you’ve found Bren’s residence hospitable?” His voice is _indulgent_ , like he’s doing _Bren_ a favour in acknowledging this man.

“Quite,” Lythir says, after a pause. “… It’s a pleasure to meet you, Archmage Ikithon.” His jaw shifts slightly as he says that, and he’s not _nearly_ as practiced in all this as Essik. Bren resists the urge to make an expression, do _anything_ to tell Lythir about that little rise in his tone as he spoke, just the slightest hesitation in the cadence of his voice that made his performance fall just barely flat. Why… the _fuck_ is Lythir bothered by his teacher?

Bren waits for Master Ikithon to begin his subtle ways of interrogation, the kind where the other person doesn’t even realize how much they’re revealing until they’ve already said too _fucking_ much, but Master Ikithon looks back to Bren, an eyebrow raised. “Forgive me,” he says, his voice dry, kind of dismissive, “but I need to pull Bren aside for just a moment.” He sounds expectant, and Bren finds himself nodding, finds himself with his thoughts running so fast he can hardly keep up and that vacant smile on his face following after his teacher. Lythir shifts slightly, and Bren thinks for a moment he’s going to reach out, and—what? Stop him? He wouldn’t fucking _dare_. Master Ikithon _glares_ at Lythir, for the first time his dark gaze seeming to really _look_ at him.

Lythir retracts his arm, and shifts his jaw, looking to Bren, who stares back at him with furrowed eyebrows. _What is your play?_ Bren thinks furiously, not even sure why he’s so upset. _You have no reason to act like this, no reason at all._ “I just wanted to say that Lord Theylas needed to talk to you, and enquire on how long you’ll be gone.” Bren _blinks_ at that—a lie, but it’s _convincing_ now. Lythir’s shoulders are relaxed, his tone over those words even, and Bren wonders if the archmage caught him off-guard initially. Bren opens his mouth to respond, but Master Ikithon’s annoyed sigh makes him look to his teacher.

“Ten minutes at most,” Master Ikithon says, his voice still _fucking_ pleasant. There’s that _edge_ to his clipped Zemnian accent, that edge that reminds Bren of being sent to that prison to see if he could withstand the cruel conditions after he questioned after Wulf’s disappearance too much. Astrid’s face was so _still_ as Master Ikithon looked at him evenly, telling him to prison allowed him to pack some of his personal belongings. _You have ten minutes, my boy._ Bren freezes for just a moment. Master Ikithon turns and begins walking in the direction of Bren’s office and Bren follows after him, not looking to Lythir as they walk through people. The sight of the soft form-fitting clothes and the jewels adorning elegant necks and wrists and ears catch his gaze, and he finds himself thinking about the way Lady Aucoin holds her cup—her stance around the diplomat to the territories in Marquet is _deferential_ —and sees Brada Theylas in her dark suit smiling at Essik—genuine fondness is so fucking evident in the curve of her lips—and DeRogna eyeing Lythir _curiously_ , and… and… 

They’re in his office. Ikithon gestures for him to close the door shut behind him, and Bren _does_ , feeling all nervous and twitchy and _wrong_. He forces himself to still, forces himself to look to Master Ikithon respectfully. “What can I help you with, Master Ikithon?” He sounds cordial and eager to please, and _young_ —he sounds and feels like he’s a kid again, and it’s… off-putting.

Master Ikithon shakes his head, sighing deeply. “It’s what I can help _you_ with, my boy.” His voice is _tender_ , and Bren forces himself to meet his even gaze, forces himself to sit beside Ikithon on the couch his teacher gestures for him to place himself. Bren never considered his furniture particularly uncomfortable, but the couch is suddenly too soft, the cushions sinking in against his weight making him feel off-kilter. He wants to set it to cinders. “You know that your well-being is of utmost importance to me.” There’s a slight pause before _well-being_ , like he’s being careful with his words.

Bren smiles up at the still standing archmage, who languidly walks to a chair and sits, setting his staff down across his lap. His fingers drum rhythmically against the arm of the chair, and Bren remembers how _crazy_ the sound would make Eodwulf, how it made him grimace and shift his jaw, unable to concentrate. He remembers how Master Ikithon’s smile widened when he asked Wulf what he just said, and Wulf stared back at him sullenly, his fingers digging into the skin of his palm, unable to give Master Ikithon the response he was searching for. He… he remembers kissing those palms later, his lips against the indentations his nails left, remembers Wulf staring at him with that utter _loss_ on his face, remembers Astrid pacing, with her voice trembling just slightly telling Wulf to _get your act together, alright? I’m_ begging _you to fucking_ —

“You’ve stopped your secret little affair with that woman?” Master Ikithon is saying, his lips twisting into a judgemental frown, and Bren blinks, before nodding. That’s… not _technically_ a lie, he and Essik have an understanding—it isn't a secret if it’s not hidden from the one person whose actual business it is— _vultures_ , he remembers Essik hissing at everyone else’s eyes on their marriage—and it’s not like they’re _kissed_ , or even fucking _touched_ since the wedding night. Essik allows him to _see_ Jester while they map out the rest of their lives, and Bren should be grateful he’s even _allowed_ to gaze at Jester’s radiant, freckled brown face, at her dark brown eyes that seem amber in the light.

It _hurts_ to think of Jester. Bren’s breath slightly trembles, and he forces himself to even it out. It hurts to think of her paint-stained knuckles and her calloused hand, _not_ holding his. It hurts to think of her bed where they sit side by side, the sun streaming through the window, the wind battering against her thin walls, the two of them not fucking, not kissing, just… indulging in each other’s presence. She holds a sketchbook in her hands sometimes as he reads, and when he looks to her, he sees birds and rabbits and sometimes even _himself_ , sometimes even his hand. Jester one time smiled and touched the hand she drew with her own, and it fucking _hurt_ , the wretched expression that must’ve spasmed through his face before he controlled himself must’ve _hurt_ because Jester’s own smile receded. _Jester_ , he thinks wildly, his teeth gritting.

Master Ikithon crosses his arms, the movement snapping Bren’s gaze to him, and they stare at each other. “Your husband is cheating on you.” Bren _stills_ at that, his eyes widening slightly in disbelief before he schools his expression, and Ikithon gives him a brittle smile. _Fuck, what?_ Bren thinks, his mind both numb and his thoughts running a mile a minute. That makes… no sense. Bren _remembers_ how annoyed Imrae Theylas was at the thought of a _mistress_ , her jaw clenching and her pearls moving as she shook her head in annoyance at Bren’s unwillingness to part from Jester completely. For all that Bren _doesn’t_ know Essik, he can’t imagine him doing anything his mother would find _this_ repugnant. “I’ve put you in this marriage,” Ikithon continues, watching Bren closely, “and I believe, if you can gather sufficient evidence, this could be used as leverage in ongoing negotiations with his den.”

Bren stares at him for a moment, and then clasps his hands together, feeling the cloth of the gloves against itself. The gloves Essik helped him choose. His mind is _spinning_ , because _this makes no sense_. People play by rules, people have internal logic. This doesn’t… how could… “You don’t have sufficient evidence,” Bren says, latching onto that. Master Ikithon nods at that, but his face is so _certain_ , his chin still out in that confident way of his. Bren grits his teeth together again, all this nervous energy in him making him want to cast _Fireball_ , do _something_. “What makes you suspect this at all?”

“His assistant,” Master Ikithon says, almost immediately. He runs a hand over his robes, smoothing out the creases in his clothes from when he sat. His eyes are dark, and the sharp angles of his face create dark shadows alongside them, making him with his languid set to his shoulders almost like a coiled snake, confidently ready to attack. His thin fingers move against the staff elegantly, and Bren _remembers_ those fingers digging into his arm earlier in the night, when he greeted Master Ikithon earlier. All of Bren’s _fucking_ layers did nothing to suppress the chill the touch brought. “I’ve done my new diligence in who you invited into this manor at my direction.” His lips curve into a pleased smile at _my_.

Bren averts his gaze, his gloves and this shirt and the coat and the cape and mantle feeling _wrong_ and itchy and raw against his scarred and burnt and calloused skin. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ — “You think he’s… having an affair with Lythir Olios,” Bren says, very evenly. He thinks of Lythir’s strange behaviour, thinks of him evidently trying to give Bren an out on talking to Master Ikithon—and it makes _sense_ , he thinks, with dread in his stomach, that Lythir wouldn’t want him to talk to his teacher. He thinks of Essik not allowing him to touch Jester’s soft hands, have those fingers intertwined with his own, and he feels sudden _rage_ at the hypocrisy, feels the desire to _sneer_ at Imrae Theylas for judging all the ways he’s lacking as a groom. He’s been forced apart from Jester for _this_? This doesn’t… of _course_ Essik would play him as the fool. _I've already had well-meaning confidants try to shock me with news about your supposed affair._ He rolled his fucking eyes. Fucking _bastard_ —and the worst thing is that he’ll _still be married to this blatent hypocrite_ after he helps Master Ikithon with the negotiations and this delicate peace he’s built with Essik— _my husband_ , he thinks desperately, _my husband_ —after all this time.

Master Ikithon sighs. “It’s _unfortunate_ ,” he says, and Bren expects him to impart advice, say _something_ personal even though he really should fucking know better _,_ but Master Ikithon just looks to his staff consideringly. “This damages the long term stability to the inroads built in the den, but at least there will be some short term gains. When I learned that his assistant has… proclivities towards other men”—Bren stills at that, his jaw clenching just slightly before he relaxes it—“I knew to act quickly, before the den gets the better of us.” His gaze becomes just fractionally warmer, something like sympathy playing in his eyes. _Please_ , Bren thinks, _just tell me this is worth it_. “I’m pleased this is all happening to someone I’ve personally trained, who’s deft enough to handle this maturely and game this situation to avoid the most damaging fallout.”

That… sounds vaguely like a compliment, so Bren lowers his head in deference even as his breathing is imperceptibly trembling. _His assistant has… proclivities towards other men_ … but that can’t be it. He knows Master Ikithon has blindspots, knows from how he would set Bren and Wulf apart and wasn’t pleased when their gazes lingered on each other and when their hands touched for too long that he has… his biases, but it can’t be to _this_ extent. He can’t truly think Essik is cheating on Bren simply because he has another gay man in his employ. He can’t truly believe two gay men who interact in a colleagial environment are fucking, that they can’t _help_ but fuck each other. Bren wonders if this is some extended, winding test, but Master Ikithon sounds so _convinced_ … this can’t be _all_ that his fucking hypothesis is based on. “Are you _sure_ , Master Ikithon?” He keeps his voice carefully obedient. _Please tell me this isn’t all you have_.

Master Ikithon’s gaze becomes sharp on him. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Bren,” he hisses, and Bren fucking _grimaces_ , can’t stop himself _from_ grimacing. “Sometimes I think being surrounded by all these agrarian commoners has made you slow. Essik Theylas was the Shadowhand to Empress Leylas Kryn”—his face twists at _Empress_ , and Bren feels uncomfortable at the way he seethes slightly at that title, wonders how fucking shallow the peace is if the top politicians in the country act like _this_ behind closed doors—“and he won’t be easy to catch in this lie, but I’ve trained you. Prove to me it isn’t a waste. Prove to me you _deserve_ this post I’ve entrusted to you.” Bren stiffens at that, and Master Ikithon smiles at his reaction, getting up off the chair. His robes move with him, a second skin of his own, and Bren watches numbly as Ikithon gives him further details, further expectations. He leaves his office, his movement confident and his footfalls even, and when he fucking shuts the door behind him, Bren sinks his head into his hands.

_Scheisse_ , he thinks wildly, careful to keep his hands on his forehead and not fuck up his coiffed hair. He’s… he’s, embarrassingly, blinking _something_ back—there’s moisture in his eyes, and he absentmindedly wipes it with his gloved hand, trying to even out his shaking breath. _Proclivities towards other men_ … all he can think about is Wulf with his shitty smile, crossing his arms as he stared at Master Ikithon. All he can think about is all the _fucking_ punishments he got, his pale skin bruised and bloodied when Master Ikithon was done the training. It was bad for all of them, but _Eodwulf_ …

_Proclivities towards other men_. Bren barks out a laugh, and it sounds harsh, it sounds _splintered._ He’ll… he’ll have to keep his eyes open, Lythir _was_ acting strangely, but… _fuck_. Holy _fuck_. Master Ikithon remains as… as blind in this regard as ever. Bren gets up and smoothes out the creases in his coat, feeling the cloth through his gloves. His mind spins, and he forces a languid smile on his lips as he walks with even footfalls out the door the way Master Ikithon left. He can’t… he lost Wulf listening to Master Ikithon, and he can’t… Master Ikithon wants what’s best for all of them, but Bren has to be knowing where Master Ikithon is blind. He has to figure out what’s happening in his own fucking manor. It isn’t malicious, but Bren has to _manage_ all this before it becomes out of hand. Before it results in a Vollstrecker sent on an impossible mission lost in the wild.

There’s the light murmur of conversation as Bren enters the throne room, and Bren searches for Lythir in all this mess of people. His gut clenches when he can’t see that braided silver hair, and he _hates_ how easily his gaze jumps to looking for Essik, _hates_ how his shoulders slump when he sees Essik engaged in what seems like dynamic discussion with Brada. He’s letting Master Ikithon’s paranoia into his own head, and he needs to be _better_ , needs to protect them both, protect _everyone_ in this delicate mess. Essik catches Bren looking at him and gives him a half-smile that’s inviting, his dark brown eyes raking over Bren’s frame. Bren smirks insincerely at that, and almost makes his way over until he hears footfalls behind him.

Lythir smiles at him when Bren looks back. “Lord Ermendrud,” he sighs, and his grip on his staff _loosens_ , like he’s _relieved._ Bren raises his eyebrows, and Lythir walks over beside him, his own eyes surveying the crowd. Bren studies this face—dark brown eyes and officious smile, framed by two long silver earrings on each ear. His skin is dark and smooth, and his jaw is striking, handsome—a type of man one might want to have an affair with. Bren… hates that he’s doing this, he’s in no fucking position to _judge_ either of them who’ve been so fucking cordial despite how much Bren is lacking as a husband and a host, but Master Ikithon’s words ring in his ears, and… he expects _evidence_ from Bren. _Scheisse_ , he thinks, viciously. Lythir sees Bren’s jaw tense and winces. “It was ten minutes,” he murmurs, and Bren remembers the timeline Lythir created.

“Ja, that’s curious,” Bren says, each word punctuating the silence between them like a dagger to the stomach, and Lythir grimaces again, almost curling in slightly at his sharp tone. Bren widens his pleasant smile, tilting his face just slightly to make it open in that slightly _off_ way of his. He’s still so _fucking_ good at this. “I want to know why you lied so blatantly in front of me and my teacher.” His voice is cool. “And I want to know if Essik told you to disgrace yourself.” _Tell me if Essik Theylas is purposefully fucking with our delicate peace._

Lythir regards him for a moment. “It wasn’t a lie.” His voice is clear, perfect, and Bren can’t tell if the fact that he’s still thinking about Wulf’s rough hands on his waist, fingers digging into his skin, is clouding his ability to see other people’s bullshit. “It _was_ a half-lie.” He smiles a that, rubbing the nape of his neck with his hand. The dark cloak ripples as he does.

Bren scoffs, crossing his arms. The music the violinists play provides a welcome reprieve to his racing mind, and he tries to relax into the heavy warmth the strumming melodies emote. “That _technicality_ is hardly significant,” he hisses, but even as he _says_ that, he’s thinking about how he told his teacher to his face that he was no longer seeing Lavorre. He’s… a truly stunning hypocrite, and he’s _tired_ , he wants this party to be _over._

Lythir watches his face, looking at least a little sheepish. “Mages live on technicalities,” he says softly, as if he can read Bren’s thoughts. “Lord Theylas did indeed want to talk to you, but it was hardly pressing. He just likes talking to you.” He sounds like he’s making a joke, his lips quirking up, but Bren is too upset to laugh at that. “The time I asked after… I work with a lot of important people, my lord.” He looks to Bren carefully. “Most people appreciate… being offered a way out, even if they don’t take it.”

Bren… doesn’t understand this, but it might be one of those things he’ll ask Hans to explain to him later, or maybe Jester. The reasoning feels _off_ to him—why would he want an out with his teacher, who _gave_ Bren everything he fucking has?—and he doesn’t know that he trusts Lythir’s intentions, but… he expected more coyness. He appears to be answering with what he believes is straightforwardness, and that’s certainly _something_. Answers given freely to his questions… it was harder extracting answers before he wore these layers, lived in this manor. “You didn’t say if Essik told you to do involve yourself in my business,” Bren says impatiently. Lythir stills at that, and that kind of tells Bren everything he needs to know. He sighs, and waves his hand dismissively. “Nevermind, I won’t ask you to turn on your superior, I can just—”

“ _My lord_ ,” Lythir cuts in, and then grimaces. “I apologize for interrupting, I just… this wasn’t a _secret mission_ , he just asked me to watch over you.” Bren raises an eyebrow, and Lythir shifts his jaw. “I’ve clearly overstepped, my apologies. I’ll refrain in the future, he just… he just cared.”

Bren stares at him, uncomprehending. _He just cared_. Gottverdammt, they’ve been married for _three months_ , how can he just _care_? This is a political arrangement, there has to be a larger agenda at play here. He looks back to Essik who holds a glass of wine in his hand languidly as his cousin talks to him. His robes are perfectly form-fitting, revealing his broad shoulders and firm frame, and the angles of his face seem perfect and divine in the orange hue the chandeliers wash over him. His white hair glows under these lights, his skin looking warm and perfect, and he’s—he’s so—

_Fuck_. This is all so… confusing and Bren _needs to talk to Jester_. They have plans later tonight, after the party, and Essik _knows_ , he gave Bren the approval to meet her. She can help untangle this all for him, she has a clarity to her vision—and she hates them _both_ , so… _neutrality_ , he thinks, his lips quirking up bitterly. _She hates everyone involved in this mess. Except for me._ He thinks of how his gaze lingered on Essik as his husband watched the candles with enraptured attention, and winces. _No_ , he is _not_ going to betray her like this and make a further mess of their relationship. _Promise me you'll love me. You can marry him but you have to love me_.

Bren is a _fucking_ piece of shit. He grabs a glass of wine from a waiter holding them up on a tray and exhales through his teeth, going down the steps and entering the foray. He ignores Lythir’s gaze on him and smiles insincerely at the diplomats who immediately walk over to him. _Soon_ , Bren thinks to himself, as he shakes hands and rubs elbows and grins. _Soon you’ll be far away, with someone who actually matters._ He tries not to think about how Jester’s house isn’t far away at all, tries to ignore how he can fucking _see_ this manor from her house. Lythir continues to watch him in the corner of his eye—he can see the clever mage’s eyes flit between Essik to Bren, careful and discreet enough it isn’t obvious, and Bren isn’t used to being _protected_ in this way, finds it strange that someone is trying to protect him from _Master Ikithon_.

He doesn’t drink, but it’s close. The red reminds him of blood.

* * *

Bren’s shoulders slump as the final guest leaves, the halls finally filled with some fucking _quiet_. The arcane candles and floating tables and everything that seemed enchanting earlier—mostly from Essik’s haughty delight in them—feel gaudy, childish, and Bren can’t _wait_ to dispel this shit. There’s this _ringing_ in his ears and he _needs_ to talk to Jester, needs to—not _hold_ , he can’t _hold_ her, isn’t _allowed_ , he won’t betray Essik like that, he _won’t_ —comfort her, listen to her about _her_ day. He needs something else to focus on, something real and gentle and _unconnected to this clusterfuck of a marriage_.

Essik stares at him, knowing what time it is. “Going to meet your lady?” His voice is deceptively even as he stands there, leaning against the wall as Bren takes off his cape and mantle, walking to his office. Essik pushes off the wall and follows, his cloak swishing behind his smooth gait. Bren’s own movement feels jerky, weak, _wrong_ , and Bren opens the door, putting his cape and mantle on his desk and reaching for his bag where he left Jester’s present. He… hopes she likes it. That’s the only thought that breaks through the blankness. He hopes he doesn’t fuck _this_ up too, he—he fucking hopes— _Scheisse,_ he and Essik agreed not to get each other presents, it was a strange quirk to Essik Bren didn’t quite understand. _It will just remind me of how much we don’t know_ , Essik explained then. Bren shifts his jaw at the memory and casts _Disguise Self_ , making himself look like _himself_ with simple, worn clothes. He looks to Essik silently, and they watch each other for a moment.

“Essik,” Bren says, the name stilted and awful on his accented tongue. It sounds hesitant, more hesitant than it had been a couple hours ago, and Essik _blinks_ , looking… worried. _He just cared_ , Lythir said, looking startled and upset by Bren’s accusations of some kind of… _politics_ at play here. _He just cared_. Bren doesn’t _understand_ , how can he _care_? He needs… he needs Jester right now. She can explain why this man who didn’t want a generic gift from Bren just _cared_.

“Go,” Essik says, his voice splintering the quiet. His face isn’t upset, isn’t unkind. He looks at Bren staring at him strangely and pulls the corner of his mouth into a smug smile. “I’ll see you, _husband_.” He says that like he _knows_ it will make Bren react a kind of way, and Bren blinks. _He knows me, but doesn’t_ , he thinks, wearily. _Knowing, but not. Clever fuck._

Husband. _Husband_. The word _does_ clatter in his mind. This is a _political arrangement_ , and Bren needs Jester, everything feels a bit like a _fucking_ mess. Master Ikithon— and he can just _picture_ Wulf hissing with his hands clenching so hard his knuckles whiten, _He’s fucked it all up again_ , but that isn’t _fair_ , Master Ikithon didn’t _intend_ for all this— has complicated matters, and now Bren has to _fix it_. He nods to Essik, his gaze cool and distant and walks past him, their shoulders brushing just slightly as Bren leaves through the doorway. Essik stiffens like he wants to say something _else_ , but maybe he can tell by the set of Bren’s jaw how much he _desperately_ doesn’t want for any more talking tonight, any more careful words dancing around each other, clever gazes searching for ruses, for lies. Essik shuts his mouth and Bren thinks he would be grateful if he were present enough for that.

Bren doesn’t think, just forces his mind into blankness, just walks, walks, _walks_. He exits out the manor from a secret exit out through the stables to the side, and walks along the dirt road, ignoring the horses that neigh to his movement. The dirt and snow scuffs against his shoes and he doesn’t _care_. He never used to go this way when he was a kid, he lived on the other side of town—the last fuck who lived in Bren’s manor didn’t _welcome_ dirtpoor peasants. Not that he did, either. Bren barks out a laugh into the still night air, his shoulders slumping slightly as he feels the cool breeze against his heated skin. He looks up at the moon full and large and almost _knowing_ , and he averts his gaze, looking to where he can see the faint light of lanterns where he knows Jester’s house is.

He stares for a moment, and then his lips quirk up, the smile on his face a little helpless at the thought of all her _fucking_ freckles. She can help. She’ll know what to do. She can make sense of all this bullshit.

Bren Aldric Ermendrud makes his way to Jester Lavorre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And can you kneel before the king  
> And say, "I'm clean, I'm clean"?
> 
> —Mumford & Sons, [_White Blank Page_](https://open.spotify.com/track/06YV4yr9sdJqSNj4HjZk2s?si=lJJUg9qtTrqc3_gPTeCozA)


	2. Jester Lavorre, Winter of 835 P.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for references and discussion of homophobia and past child abuse (alone with internalized victim-blaming) in this chapter.

Jester smiles up to her mother, wiping her forehead as she looks to her burnt cookies. “ _Okay_ ,” she says slowly. Marion raises an eyebrow at that, crossing her arms and shaking her head as a smile plays on her lips. She’s wearing a large handknit sweater like Jester, hers blue and decorated with stars and moons where Jester’s is patterned with really pretty snowflakes, and it slips off one shoulder from how _big_ it is on her. Marion wears dangling earrings with her curly red hair perfectly tied up into a pretty bun over her head, her dark eyes glittering in the warm lantern light, and she looks _radiant_. Looking at her mother being so _relaxed_ and _happy_ after all the turmoil of the last couple of years is so… fulfilling that Jester can’t help but beam at her. “So _maybe_ I burnt the cookies, you know?” She winces, pulling off the oven mitts and reaching for one.

“Darling, you don’t have to”—Marion pauses, and shakes her head again fondly as Jester puts a cookie in her mouth—“ah. Is it… is it edible?” She tilts her head and leans against the counter. Jester hears little footfalls, and leans her head past her mother to look at Nugget trailing into the room, looking _very_ interested in the half-eaten cookie in Jester’s hand. Marion smiles hesitantly at the dog Jester convinced her _would be very good at protecting us when creepy strangers come, Mama, please, please, please_ , and Nugget _woofs_ adorably, coming close beside Marion and pawing at the cloth of her trousers. “Can… Nugget eat one?”

“ _Mama_ ,” Jester says, taking off the dirty apron and smiling as she hears the distant sounds of her friends laughing in the living room. “Nugget can’t _eat these_ , they’re poisonous to dogs, you know!” Jester practically _tore_ through that book the petseller offered her when she purchased Nugget, almost as fast as Bren reading some article on magical theory. The thought of him brings a pang to her chest, but she exhales through her teeth and looks to the clock. An _hour_ until his rich people party is over, and then he’ll come _hereeeee_ , and the thought has her vibrating with excitement. She puts the rest of the burnt cookie in her mouth and forces herself to chew and swallow. She gives her mother a weak smile. “And _anything_ is edible if you’re _determined_ , you know?”

Marion sighs deeply, but her smile widens. “Oh, my little sapphire,” she says, the way her fondness makes her accent softer and more lilting than it normally is making Jester beam slightly, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’ll just bring them the cake we made, it’s gonna be more than enough.” Jester pouts, and Marion walks around the counter and pulls her close, kissing her on the forehead. “It’s _okay_ , Jester, we’ll practice with the cookies. We’ll feed them to the first guests that visit we don’t like.” Her eyes twinkle a little mischievously, and Jester’s eyes widen. “What?” Marion pulls a loose strand of her own hair behind her ear almost self-consciously. “You aren’t the _only_ Lavorre who can prank people.”

“ _Ahhhh_ ,” Jester says, pulling her into a hug and burying her face in her mother’s shoulder, reaching up on her tiptoes. “That’s _such_ a good idea. Better than poisoning Nugget.” Nugget barks excitedly at hearing his name, circling around the two of them, and Marion laughs, the sound breaking the companionable silence between when they speak. Jester looks up at her, head tilted against Marion’s sweater. It’s so _soft_ against her face. “But _seriously_ , don’t feed them to Nugget, they’re _chocolate_ chip cookies and they are _so bad for him_.” She narrows her eyes at Marion, and Marion sighs, reaching out to run a hand over Jester’ cheek. Jester scrunches her nose as Marion looks over her hair, looking for imperfections from when Jester first entered the kitchen. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Marion says, raising her hands and smiling. “Only the best food for Nugget.” Nugget barks _again_ , and Jester _grins_ , letting go of her mother to run her hand through Nugget’s fur. The dog stills for her, and she coos at him, kissing the space between his floppy ears. Marion sighs at that, passing by her into the kitchen. She grabs the chocolate cake the two of them made earlier, and it’s not _amazing_ , it isn’t _perfect_ —the icing isn’t completely even, and it’s just a _leetel_ lopsided. They nearly overcooked it, the two of them getting into a small foodfight throwing flour at each other, Jester squealing as it got all up in her hair. The cake looks fucking _heavenly_ in her mother’s hands though, Marion’s fingers more calloused than they were when Jester was still a child. They made it together, which is more than they _ever_ did together in the Chateau, and Jester treasures it. She treasures it so much she can hardly breathe, and maybe one day they’ll have done it so often the icing will be perfect, the layers will be even. _Maybe_ , but Jester enjoys the chaos. “Bring the plates and spoons,” Marion says, keeping it carefully up to where Nugget can’t reach even if he braces himself on his hindquarters.

“Ja,” Jester sings, grabbing for the plates and spoons and following after her mother. Marion’s footfalls are even as she balances the plate the cake is placed on, and Jester’s are dramatically _not_ , stumbling after her mother and trying not to trip on Nugget barking excitedly as he follows her. The three of them walk into the living room, and her two friends turn to beam at her, both of them sprawling on the couch.

Well, that isn’t strictly true—Calianna sits nice and to herself, wearing a pretty white dress decorated with gorgeous pretty green ribbons. The scales to the left of her face look all bright and glittering in the warm lantern light. Her black hair is silky and shiny against the pale skin of her left side, in dual braids to each side of her face. She holds a pillow close to her chest, eyes flitting from Twiggy back to Jester. “Miss Jester,” she says in delight, getting up to help Jester put the cutlery on the old wooden table close to the two couches. “Did _you_ make this cake?”

Twiggy, her other guest, also gets up and reaches out to pet Nugget, the smile already on her face widening as Nugget licked her face. Her messy blonde hair, is done up in a pretty singular braid, as neat as Marion was able with Twiggy. It was all full of twigs and dirt when she arrived a couple days ago, and Marion _immediately_ directed her to the bathroom, telling her very politely to _wash your lovely hair, my dear, I would love to do something with it_. So Twiggy took that bath, and Marion experimented with different styles, settling for a pretty and intricate braid that curled into a bun at the back of her head. Twiggy giggled, called it a _nest_ , and Marion smiled after Jester clarified it was a compliment, her own hair in pigtails as she waited her turn for Marion to do her magic on her.

Jester’s hair is pulled into two buns— _fun buns_ , she squealed when Marion did her up, her mother grinning behind her in the mirror—and it’s a _leetel_ strange not having her hair around her head like a warm blanket. She thinks she might look _really pretty_ , though, from how Calianna flushes slightly as they both work to clear the table for the cake. “I _did_ make the cake, Calianna,” Jester says, grinning at her. “Me and Mama.”

“Nugget helped,” Marion says, placing the cake at the center of the table. The dog looks like he’s about to lung forward for the cake, but Twiggy holds him back, cooing, _Good dog, good boy, perfect, you’re amazing_ , as Nugget squirms with her insistent arms around him. Twiggy’s blue dress is getting a little rumpled, but she looks _so_ perfectly happy on the floor with a dog licking her face pleadingly. Marion gives them an amused smile before she expectantly looks to Jester, who hands her a knife. She begins to cut into the cake, and Jester grabs Calianna’s scaled arm, pulling the two of them back onto the couch. Nugget _whines_ , and Twiggy picks him up—pretty _easily_ too, for someone so small—and sits next to Jester.

“Aw, _baby_ ,” Jester sighs, as Nugget barks and looks at her, blinking with his large brown eyes. “You can’t have my _cookies_ , they aren’t _good_ for you.” She rubs his stomach, and Nugget squirms in her lap. “They will make you probably _poop_ and stuff, and too much will _hurt_ you, okay?”

“Cookies?” Twiggy perks up, and Jester _swears_ that if Twiggy had floppy ears like Nugget they would be perked up right now. Jester _winces_ , and Twiggy crosses her arms, looking _very_ interested in these hypothetical snacks. “You made _cookies_ , Jester?”

“Well… yeah.” Jester sighs heavily. “They’re obviously _super awesome_ , you know. And _really_ well-made. All delicious and yummy. But maybe a _little_ ”—she stresses the word _leetel_ —“burnt.” Marion smiles, and Jester looks to Twiggy. “I can give you some if you _really_ want, they have _chocolate chips_.” Twiggy’s smile _widens_ at _chocolate chips_ —half the time, Twiggy’s face is stained in brown, and Jester is never quite sure if it’s _chocolate_ or _mud_ —and Marion momentarily pauses in her cutting of the cake to exhale out a little laugh.

“I’m _sure_ they’re amazing,” Calianna says, reaching back for the pillow to hug against her chest. “I _would_ love to eat whatever cookies you’ve made, Miss Jester.” She sounds completely genuine, eyes wide and earnest, and Jester _grimaces_ , trying to think of a polite way to say _please don’t eat my shitty cookies, please, please, please—_

“Oh, Calianna,” Marion says, passing her a plate with a slice of cake. Calianna reaches for it, careful to hold it away from Nugget. Thankfully, _this_ isn’t toxic to her dog, but he already _ate_ , and Jester _really_ doesn’t want him to get a stomachache. Jester gets her plate next, and tries to keep Nugget away from it, but his _eyes_ … she gives him little bites here and there, hoping her mother won’t notice. Twiggy eats _messily_ , some icing already staining her face, and she grins goodnaturedly when Jester passes her a napkin. “Those cookies are for guests we _dislike_.”

Calianna laughs softly at that, smiling down at her plate. “… Thank you, Miss Lavorre. Miss Lavorres.” Jester smiles at her, winking clumsily, and Calianna averts her gaze, flushing more deeply. She looks to the huge decorated tree in the corner of the room, to the intricate painted wooden symbol placed at the top. It’s a very detailed small symbol of the Traveler with his verdant green cape and his charming smile on top of the pine tree, coloured in all of Jester’s shades of green. His hands are out, the robes billowing around him, in the act of blessing everyone, and Jester finds herself _preening_ at the way Calianna’s eyes widen with admiration. “That’s really good, Miss Jester.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Jester says, immediately reaching in between her cushions and thrusting a pamphlet in the direction of Calianna. “Keep this _secret_ , maybe leave it here after you finish _reading_? But the Traveler is _super cool,_ Calianna. He is my best friend, and you should consider worshipping him maybe?” She bats her eyes as Calianna looks at it, all coloured nice with Jester’s acrylic paints.

“Aw, man,” Twiggy sighs, running a hand through Nugget’s fur. Nugget pants at her excitedly and she smiles, taking a bite from her slice of cake. “I tried worshipping him and he didn’t _answer_. He doesn’t like me. I burned some incense and _everything_.”

“He doesn’t _always_ answer,” Jester pouts. “Okay, give him like _one more chance_ , okay? He’s super good when you have problems and you just want to _scream_ into a pillow, but, you know. You want someone to _listen,_ too. He’s a _great_ listener.” She thinks of all the recent nights she’s spent talking to herself, grimacing as she painted that sculpture. _Hey, Traveler, tell me what the fuck to do next_. Sometimes he gave her convincing words, telling her that he _never_ told her what to do and she never _needed_ him to, that he would support whatever decision she made. Sometimes it was only the warmth of his presence as she painted, painted, _painted_. Things have been getting _hard_ recently, _tough_ , and Marion looks to her sympathetically from where she sits in her chair for a moment. They are both _incredibly_ aware of the envelope sitting on Jester’s desk in her room right now, of the deadline that’s _fast_ approaching for Jester to make her decision.

She’s rather _not_ focus on _that_ , so she teases and laughs and shares stories with Calianna and Twiggy, her two friends who actually travelled _here_ , to _Blumenthal_ , to spend Winter’s Crest with _her_. She first met Twiggy at her art gallery, and the two of them immediately hit it off— _you pissed off a noble?_ Twiggy cackled, _oh gods, that makes you even_ more _cool, you know?_ —when Jester _accosted_ her, aggressively complimenting her use of earthy colours. Calianna she met in Alfield, and she was _enraptured_ by the mysterious and friendly woman asking her for _help_ hunting down a magical artifact. It was so _exciting_ , and when the two of them were done, sweating and tired and their dresses all muddied, Jester invited her to her home. _Come anytime, please, please, please._ She didn’t think Calianna would _actually_ come, not when she had so many friends in Port Damali, but she _did_ , and the thought makes Jester smile and smile and _smile_.

It’s the fifth time that she happens to look at the clock that Twiggy asks if she’s _waiting_ on somebody. She wiggles her eyebrows, suggesting a _mysterious romantic stranger_ , and Jester laughs awkwardly, her face all flushing as she thought of Bren’s red hair and pale skin and heated fingers digging into her waist. _Well_ , not _specifically_ that—Essik Theylas is a piece of _shit_ , allowing Bren to visit but not allowing them to _touch_. Not _yet_ , Bren told her, _he just wants to ensure I won’t embarrass his den_. Jester supposes she ought to be very grateful Essik allows Bren to see her at _all,_ but Bren is _already_ so _fucking_ grateful, his eyes taking her in each time he sees her, documenting how she looks for his perfect memory. Jester thinks _someone_ should be bitter, _someone_ should be angry.

All Bren thinks about is how it could’ve been so much _worse_. No one was tortured, no one was hung from the capital walls, and the man Master Ikithon picked for him was kind, and decent, and allowed him to visit Jester. It fucking _hurts_ when he looks at her like _that_ , like he can’t believe how _she_ isn’t _grateful_ , like her biting resentment is a change of pace he might find welcome or endearing, but not quite understand. He shuts _down_ when Jester tells him about how it could be so much _better_ , deflecting or getting quiet. Never _leaving_ though, despite one time where he came close. It was right after a meeting with his then-fiance, and he looked like he was about to get up before Jester acquiesced to his pleading _look,_ stopping her string of insults to Ikithon and entangling her fingers in his hair as she pressed kisses up against his neck.

Everyone is talking now, laughing now, and it’s so _warm_ —and close to _one ante meridiem_ , close to when Bren’s clipped voice told her by _Sending_ he would come by her place if the invitation was still welcome. She raised her eyebrows at that then, telling him _of course you can come anytime, Brennnn, you’re always welcome_ , and she sank her shoulders down in relief when he responded back, unable to take his silence. He thanked her genuinely, his voice becoming all fond, and she smiled, leaning back in her chair in front of her canvas as she teased about how _hot_ she was going to look for him. The sky in her painting was supposed to be a darker blue, but if she picked a colour closer to that of Bren’s radiant pale blue eyes, only the Traveler was there to judge her.

Jester gets up, smiling as they look up at her. _I’m gonna wait for someone, okay_ , she says, and Marion tells her to grab for her coat. Calianna watches her for a moment— _wistfully_ , she thinks, her heart kind of seizing, _oh, if only Bren and I didn’t ruin each other_ —and then Nugget _leaps_ into her arms, distracting her. Jester watches all these brilliant people for a moment, watches how they grin and eat, watches how her mother plays with a loose thread in her sweater, watches how Twiggy kisses Nugget’s head—and then walks _out_ , grabbing for her coat. She puts on her black boots—newer ones, she gave her old pair to _Bren_ —and then sighs, looking to the door.

The Traveler’s symbol is a door with a path, and Jester is a traveler at heart. The choice the envelope presents shouldn’t weigh so heavily in her chest, but it _does_. She stares at the door for a moment longer, and then pushes it open, walking out, out, _out._

* * *

Jester walks along the path to the front of her house, listening to her boots _crunch_ against the snow in her yard, ruining the perfect, glittering evenness. She’s been desecrating this cool perfection for a _while_ , and Bren hasn’t shown up yet. There was fresh snowfall last night, and she was too busy cooking and cleaning and preparing with Mama to properly devastate the front like it deserved. She doesn’t quite shiver—her coat is sturdy against the winds, and the cold never much affected her regardless—but she can see her breath in the air in front of her. She grins, and exhales deeper, watching the breath from the lanterns set up the porch of the house. It’s all so _pretty,_ looking all strange and shadowed in the night, and she walks back to the porch. The roof extends out, so there’s a strip of land not covered by snow, and Jester pauses there, seeing a deadened cluster of sunflowers right up against where the raised platform of the porch is.

“Oh,” Jester says, reaching down with her bare fingers to grab one. She winces as she feels the stem rip, but it’s too _late_ , it’s already _dead_. She loves everything about the winter, except the way that it _kills_ everything. The sunflower is all limp against the freckled brown of her hands, and Jester _sighs_. “You must’ve been _so_ pretty, you know? But it’s _okay_ , you were pretty for as long as you were _able_.”

_Ah, my dear_ , she hears behind her, and Jester _grins_ , turning to look to the Traveler who smiles back at her. His cloak billows around him, fading the lower she looks until he’s translucent where the snow is on the ground. The verdant green glimmers from the lantern light, looking all warm and pretty and _alive_ , rippling with the wind. His eyes are covered, but his lips are quirked up wide enough that she _knows_ they must shine with fondness. He raises his arms, and Jester nearly _stumbles_ in her excitement as she walks to him, pulling him into a hug. _Your sweater is lovely._

“I _know_ , right?” She beams down, her coat unbuttoned so the patterned snowflakes on the front are visible. She twirls for him, her feet crunch, crunch, _crunching_ in the snow, and his smile widens. “Did you see the _statue_ of you on the tree?” Jester looks to him eagerly. “I gave Calianna a _pamphlet_ , and she seemed _so_ interested, I think I might get you a _super awesome_ follower.”

The Traveler smirks, and he follows after her as she sits on the porch. He sits beside her, his cloak _dropping_ to the ground as he leans down. Jester remembers the two of them in her room in the Lavish Chateau, sitting on her bed as she painted messily with her crayons with a book behind the paper to brace her artwork against. He would watch over her shoulder and offer suggestions, and Jester snorted after him. _Traveler, let me finishhhh!_ He raises his ethereal hand now, his robes pulling apart to unveil it, and Jester watches with bright eyes as he offers her a small little book. _That statue was an excellent present, I quite enjoyed it. And I didn’t forget to get you a gift too._

“You got me a _gift_?” Jester says, her voice all trembling from excitement. She reaches out for the little book, the hardcover black and sturdy. She looks at it eagerly, and engraved in cursive gold is a pretty title — _The Way of the Traveler_. She raises her eyebrows at him, and he makes a _go on_ gesture, leaning close as if in anticipation of her reaction. Jester grins and opens it, her eyes beginning to trace over the first page:

_Proclamation 1: Seek balance amongst all things. Recognize the beauty in tragedy, and recognize the tragedy in beauty—work to preserve this balance, do not at all costs undo this cycle—_

Jester _squeals_ , grabbing his shoulder and looking at him with wide eyes. “A _holy_ book?” she says, and only when the words leave through her parted lips does she realize how _loud_ she’s being. “A holy book,” she says, more quietly, her smile impossibly wide. Her grip on the book is _tight_ , and she looks down to the half-full page. She wants to tear through this _immediately_ , wants to have her gaze on every page, but she’s surprised by the waste of space. She flips through several other pages, noticing similar spaces. “Traveler, what are these _spaces_ for?” She could just _imagine_ Twiggy pouting at this, saying _Jester, doesn’t your god care about the trees?_

His eyes flit to the book. _The proclamations are very nice, if I do say so myself—_

“ _So_ good, Jester says agreeably, running a hand through her hair as she looks to the pages, at cursive handwriting, at black ink on crisp white. “Like, probably _so_ much better than whatever all those _other_ gods have, you know? Their books are probably _so_ boring.”

_Most definitely_ , the Traveler sighs. _This one will be different, because I have a secret weapon they don’t._ Jester furrows her eyebrows, and he grins to her. _This country won’t know what hit it, because I have one Jester Lavorre._

“Me?” Jester asks, widening her eyes. She looks down to the spaces and her jaw drops. _Drawings_ , she thinks, her head all numb with shock and gratitude and _excitement_. “ _I’m_ the secret weapon?” She’s blinking, blinking something _back_ , and no, no, _no,_ she’s _not gonna cry, it’s Winter’s Crest—_

_I have Jester Lavorre in my corner_ , he continues, an ethereal hand reaching out to touch her cheek. Jester _blinks_ , feeling for the first time the wetness on her cheeks. She laughs breathlessly, opening her mouth to apologize, but he just shakes his head, smiling at her gently. _And her illustrations transform the world. She’s my best friend, so I was hoping she’d read my book before I showed others, and she’d add her lovely ink and colours. Be my co-author._

Her face _twists_ , and she’s stumbling over her words, stumbling over them as she says _yes-yes-yes_ , and she chokes out a laugh as she raises the back of her hand to wipe back the rest of her embarrassing tears. “I would be _honoured_ ,” she says, giving him a helpless smile. “I’m the _first_?” Her mind is _spinning_. Still the favourite, still his _favourite_ , even after her anger when Bren—her heart stutters as she thinks of him, eyes flitting even in this moment if she can see that familiar frame along the road that leads into her yard—was forced into that engagement, into that _marriage._ “Traveler, I would be _honoured_ , but I would need a _super sexy_ pseudonym, though.”

The grimace on his face matches her own as they both undoubtedly think of the capital prison cell Jester was chained into, the one where Bren came in looking all beautiful and tired and _worried_ , the one where she sobbed into his shirt and he held her so, so, _so_ tight. He had her back then, and even though she still wants to be a cleric, she’s going to do her _very_ fucking best to protect the people she loves from having to sign their lives away on her behalf. Jester promised herself she was going to free him from that _fucking_ marriage—her frown deepens as she remembers Essik’s ringed hand entangled with his, tightening as Jester watched them, that smirk to his smug face—and she can’t be getting arrested for having her name on such a _compromising_ document.

_Of course_ , the Traveler assures her. _Whatever sexy pseudonym you desire._

“ _The_ _Sexy Sapphire_ ,” Jester says, furrowing her eyebrows and shifting her jaw to pretend at making a sultry face. “Oh, or… or…” She tries to think of another name, cocking her head. The Traveler watches her, lips pulled up into an amused smirk. “Or _Fiona Fancypants_ ,” she finishes, her face warming up. “Well, maybe not _that_.”

_It’s perfect_ , the Traveler sighs. The wind ripples, but his cloak is unaffected, all settled around him. He tilts his face at Jester. _You’ve been… you’ve been praying to me a lot, and I do not want to put undue pressure on you._ Jester widens her eyes, lifting her hand to say, _No, no, no_ , to make it _very_ clear that no matter _what_ was pressing on her, she would always have time for her best friend, but the Traveler continues to speak, sensing her prickling interjection coming. _Life is pulling you in many different pathways, Jester, and no matter what way you go, it will all be equally radiant. I think so, and your mother thinks so, and your friends think so._ He _thinks so, too, but it really doesn’t matter what we think, this is about you._

Jester shakes her head as he finishes that sentence, trying to come up with a way to make him _understand_. She thinks of that yellow letter offering her a job with Vess DeRogna, the Archmage of Antiquities, a job that would pay her a truly outrageous amount of money. She said that she would _never_ paint an archmage, _never_ work for those selfish bastards who stole _everything_ from her mother, all because Marion rejected one of them, all because she didn’t want to be forced into marriage. A year ago, she would’ve thrown that shit out, or burnt it, using the heat from the paper to warm up the fireplace. The wind batters against the walls at night, the heat leaks out from their creaking floorboards. She and her mother could use all the heat they can fucking _get_.

But Bren wasn’t forced into marriage a year ago. Bren didn’t sacrifice his freedom to assure _hers_ , Bren didn’t change, Bren didn’t improve. And then he was, and he did , and he did, and he _did_. “Traveler,” Jester says, very patiently as she holds her holy book with both of her hands, “if we only lived our lives for _ourselves_ , I would be in prison.”

See, Jester _is_ grateful—to Bren. No one else. Not that horrible archmage who makes Bren still and then _almost_ stumbling in his words as he defends Ikithon to Jester, and not Essik fucking Theylas. Only Bren. Only the lord of the Zemni Fields who put Jester over being lord of the Zemni Fields. Only him.

_If you only lived for yourself, you wouldn’t worship me_ , the Traveler says, his tone soft. _But Jester, you could… stand to live for yourself a little._ He sounds a little desperate, a little wound up. Like he _needs_ for her to understand what he’s trying to say. _You don’t have to entangle yourself in deals and machinations like this, you don’t have to work against your ideals. Ideals are_ important.

“Don’t want your trickster cleric working with an organization like _this_?” Jester asks, finger running over the spine of the book. “Not very… not very holy, huh.” She lets out a breathless laugh, and then grimaces at the crumpled sunflower she didn’t even realize she set beside her. It looks so _sad_ and _lonely_ there, and Jester picks it up with her hand. _Winter kills everything_ , she thinks bitterly.

_That too is balance,_ the Traveler says, watching her. His jaw is clenched slightly, and he seems… _worried_. It’s _strange_ , the last time the Traveler sounded _worried_ it was on her carriage ride to Rexxentrum. _The sunflowers will bloom again in the spring. And they will be beautiful. And I think you’re the holiest thing about this planet, Jester._ She looks to him, and he smiles. _Certainly the most fun, and the kindest, and that’s more important anyway_.

“And the sexiest,” Jester adds, feeling her face _twist_ as she tries to even out her breath, giving him a reassuring smile. _We’re good, the two of us are always good_. “… Thank you, Traveler. And I hope I don’t, you know. Let you down. Ideals _are_ important.” She looks at the sunflower and closes her fingers around it, feeling the dead petals brush against her skin. “People are more important.”

He watches her for a moment, and that small smile _finally_ returns to his lips. Jester can feel tension she didn’t even know she had ease off her shoulders. _I agree._ He gets up, and as he does, his cloak begins to billow again with the wind again. He flickers slightly, flickers against the lantern light, and Jester is thankful her hair is in buns, because otherwise clumps would be _slapping_ against her face. _You’re very important, Jester. And I will see you._

“See you,” she echoes, smiling helplessly and getting up. He nods to her, and Jester _watches_ as the wind pushes, and pushes, and _pushes_ , right up until the Traveler dematerializes into the darkness. She stares where he stood for a moment, examines how the snow remains perfectly still, perfectly uniform. She gingerly puts the sunflower back where she found it, back with the other dead flowers who didn’t survive the onslaught of the cold, and the snow, and the ice, and then walks _over_ , her boots thumping against the snow. She crunches the white where the Traveler stood, making it all messy, making it all ruined— _ruined_ like her father who doesn’t respond when she casts _Sending_ , _ruined_ like Bren’s face when he watched her leave through those double doors that night of his wedding, _ruined_ like the loose thread in her mother’s sweater, _ruined_ like that poor fucking sunflower—and she _smiles_ , reaching out to peer out down the road, look for Bren’s frame. It isn’t like the Traveler stands for perfection, anyway.

Jester waits alone in the cold, and recalls how Bren didn’t come to tell her goodbye that fateful trip to Rexxentrum. This time is _different_. This time she has faith that he will move heaven and earth to unite with her, at least for these few hours. At least tonight. He _will_.

So she waits, and she waits, and she _waits._

* * *

Bren arrives five minutes later. Jester doesn’t have his perfect memory, that perfect timer in his head that ticks, ticks, _ticks_ , but she counted, having gotten bored with disheveling the snow. She sat back down, and she tilted her head, watching that dirt road. Her anticipation grew, and when she hears his familiar footsteps— _heavier_ than she’s used to, but still _even_ , his footfalls are always _even_ , and she wonders if that was _trained_ into him—she perks _up_ , grinning and beckoning him to sit beside her on the raised platform of her porch against the ground. “ _Heyyyyy_ , Bren,” she beams, but her smile becomes a little still as she watches that _Disguise Self_ flicker out. The facade of the simple clothes fade away, and Jester indulges in them for a second longer—a Bren who could love her _openly_ , a Bren from the _fields_ —before she takes him in, watches that expensive embroidered coat and those lovely gloves and coiffed hair. The only thing that doesn’t look completely well put-together is his expression.

“Oh, Lavorre,” Bren sighs, sitting next to her. The sides of their arms brush against each other slightly, and Jester closes her eyes for a moment, indulging in it, imagining his arm around her. It would be more comfort than this _coat_ , and she _tries_ not to be bitter, _tries_ not to let these little moments with him be tinged with all this resentment. Right now she wants to be _happy_ , damnit. It’s _Winter’s Crest_ , and Bren has stolen away a couple of hours to spend with _her_. So she opens her eyes, and takes in the delicate details of his face, and frowns at how he smiles _too_. Like he wants to be happy, but his breathing is far too fucking even. _Deceptively_ even. Jester would know— _no one_ can fake a smile like she can. He holds a brown bag in his hand, and he offers it to her, his smile becoming less tight as he takes her in. “Happy Winter’s Crest.”

Jester reaches for it eagerly, and resists the urge to have her hand brush against his. It isn’t like anyone would _know_ , but it would upset Bren—he’s _obsessive_ about Essik’s rules, Jester thinks it might be a byproduct of all that simpering _gratefulness_. Like he’s terrified even these little kindnesses might be weaponized, might be taken away. Jester has tried to interrogate him on Essik, tried to figure out whether the white-haired bastard tries to leverage Bren’s access to Jester against him, as subtle as she can—which isn’t _that_ subtle. Bren caught onto what she was doing and assured her that Essik was a gentleman and incredibly _decent_. He laughed. _More decent than I deserve_.

Jester didn’t laugh at that with him, and frowned unhappily until he was shifting uncomfortably and deflecting onto asking her about her art gallery, not wanting to address her stony silence.

It isn’t like she thinks Essik is some kind of _monster_ , and she’s glad she isn’t being used to hurt Bren by someone else other than that _fucking_ teacher, that bastard who held Bren’s arm too tight during the wedding ceremony. She’s glad Bren seems to think Essik is kind—but Bren is also a _horrible_ gauge of what _is_ kind, and he speaks so _admiringly_ of that _teacher_ … “How was the party?” she asks, raising her eyebrow as she holds the bag. It’s light, flimsy, and she wonders what’s in it, looking to him eagerly. “And _please_ tell me you didn’t _break_ the _rules_ , Bren, and buy something _super expensive_.” Jester doesn’t want him to spend too much money on her, doesn’t want this _thing_ between them— _affair_ , she thinks, her lips twisting into a momentary frown, _because I’m a damn mistress_ —to become something where he compensates for how much it all _hurts_ , how much this situation is _painful_ , with glittering gifts. Jester has already dealt with that with her mother, and it’s so _hard_ , trying to break out of that. They had to lose everything to even begin to.

Bren exhales through his teeth, and actually runs a hand over his face. His jaw shifts as he considers what to tell her, and she begins to open the bag as she listens to the silence, the only thing breaking the quiet between them being the wind against the trees. “Not horribly expensive,” he says, as Jester pulls out the _prettiest_ purple dress from the bag. She _gasps_ and gets up, immediately holding it against her frame as she tries to imagine the frilly cloth against her curves. Bren _grins_ at her enthusiasm, and it’s all unpracticed, this little half-smile that is _completely_ earnest. His gaze _rakes_ over her in her coat and her oversized sweater, almost like he’s _imagining_ her in this dress, and Jester is about to suggest going inside, going to her _room_ so he could see _exactly_ how the silk hugs her body, when he tears his eyes away and looks to the snow, almost curling into himself. His arms are crossed, and Jester stills.

“Thank you, Bren,” she says quietly. He only becomes this open for half-seconds at a time these days, and she wishes it could be _easier_ , that anything she could say or do would make this better. “You look… _sad_.” His gaze _snaps_ to her, and Jester _winces_ , hand to her mouth. She _really_ needs to work on what she says out loud, but she’s… kind of glad that she’s putting this out there. She’s glad he knows that she sees him, that people _see_ him. “Where did you buy the dress?” She slowly walks back over to sit beside him, putting the dress gently back into the brown bag.

“Nicodranas,” he says, after a moment. “Your mother came from Nicodranas, and the entire city was so _vibrant_ , so full of colour and ships and ports and trading posts. A local noble was showing me around, and we passed by a shop.” Bren smiles at her a little sheepishly, his face flushing this light pink, and it’s one of the most adorable things she’d ever seen. “When I saw that dress, all I could think about was you.”

Bren thinks about her. She _knows_ this in the abstract, that thoughts and memories of her colour the way he experiences his day-to-day life, but to have this _confirmation_ , this _proof_ , is _something else._ He saw this pretty dress that wasn’t outrageously expensive, with black designs imposed on the purple silk, and all he could think about was _her_. Jester Lavorre. She looks down, her own face becoming warmer as she stares at the fucked-up snow. “It’s _kind of_ short,” she says approvingly. “You must _really_ like my legs.”

Bren _laughs_ , and it’s a little harsh, a little brittle—his voice is just _rough_ , like it’s been a pretty poor night. “I love every part of you, Lavorre.” Jester smiles at him, _knowing_ how much she must be flushing right now, and Bren’s own little smile widens. “I love your face. I love your freckles.” He’s turned to her, his arms crossed like that’s the only thing keeping him from reaching for her right now. _Reach for me,_ she thinks as his eyes flit over her, memorizing how her face must look in the lantern light from this angle. “And ja, I love your legs. They’re freckled too, I keep trying to count them but I always lose track.”

“ _You_ lose _track_ ,” she says, pouting just a little. Her lower lip juts out, and Bren stares at it for a moment, his eyes _dark_. In the orange hue that the lights cascade him in, his face looks all warm, all splendid, all beautiful. His eyes are shadowed, and Jester wants to get _lost_ in them. “Not a good trait for a concentrating _wizard_ , you know. Focus is _very_ important.”

“You’ve very distracting,” Bren murmurs, his voice low like he might actually kiss her. Jester’s heart flutters in her chest, _knowing_ he won’t, but still—a lady can hope. A lady can dream. Jester Lavorre is positively _made_ of dreams. “You’re more distracting than I am focused, Jester.” He says her name like it’s an arcane incantation, like he’s casting a spell, and she closes eyes for a moment, indulging herself in the way that he said it. _Jes-ter._ That light lilt, as his Zemnian voice worked over her chosen virtue name. Jester opens her eyes and watches him watching. She smiles almost _shyly_ , and he mirrors her smile, eyes tracing over the angles of her face. “How was _your_ party?”

Jester shakes her head, and a loose strand falls out down her face, over her forehead. Bren’s eyes follow it, and she thinks for a moment he might actually _touch_ her. She tries not to look too disappointed as the movement of his hand is only a somatic gesture, casting _something_ that makes this pretty ghostly hand appear in front of her face. She giggles as the hand pulls out her strand behind her ear, and kind of caresses her face. It’s cool against her skin, which is _wrong_ , Bren’s touch on her is always _hot_ —but this is all he has to give right now, and so she tries to imagine, tries to _dream_. Her gift for him is in her sweater pocket, and she reaches for it after a moment, after a breathless little laugh. “I will give you _your_ gift,” she promises, “and tell you about _my_ party. But you _first_. I asked about your party _first_ , didn’t I?” She grins. “Tell me the details, Ermendrud, and then you can hear about my _super awesome_ dog I just got, and everything _else._ ”

Bren _stares_ for a moment. “Dog?” His voice is too casual, and Jester furrows her eyebrows at his expression before putting her hand to her mouth. _Oh shit_ —the marks on his chest, from the _hounds_ … She’s about to stumble through words, stutter out _something_ that would probably make the situation _worse_ , but Bren just smiles, and it’s so _insincere_. “Is that how we’re doing this? Details for details?”

Jester watches him, and from his face, she can tell he really, _really_ does not want to talk about Nugget. She doesn’t… want to _force_ him to talk about it… “Yeah,” she says. “Tell me about the _rich people_ party.”

Bren shifts his jaw, pulling away and averting her gaze. Jester misses his closeness immediately, almost _wishes_ she didn’t bring up Nugget, but she _genuinely…_ does think they can’t walk on eggshells about this stuff _forever_ , and he was wound up _before_ she mentioned her wonderful pet. She wants to know what has him strung up, wants to know what her antics in Rexxentrum cost him. He wouldn’t like it if he knew this was how she thought about it, but this is _her_ burden to bear. It _is_ , and she’s going to find a way to dig him out of this hole, to give him a life and a romance he _should_ have.

Because he’s kind to her, and Essik Theylas _isn’t_ more than Bren deserves—Bren deserves much, much better, and so does Jester. They deserve each other. She wasn’t so sure at the start, but she’s sure _now_ —Bren would do anything to keep her free, and she’s going to break the bars of his gilded cage, give him a future with someone he _chose_. “Jester,” he murmurs, like the intensity of her thoughts is written all over her face, “my party… my party was _fine_. Just diplomats and politicians and… and interests.” His jaw clenches, like he really doesn’t want to say what he’s going to say, but can’t stop it from slipping past his lips— “Archmage Vess DeRogna accepted my invitation, and so did Master Ikithon.”

Jester tilts her head, looking at that brittle smile on his face. “Oh,” she says, quietly. “Was he… was he nice?” She’s kind of _shocked_ Bren is bringing this up— _asking for my reaction to this_ , she thinks, this warmth in her chest for him expanding, _asking for my advice, actually purposefully involving me in his life—_ but she’s not going to allow her… quite obvious hatred for this man to push Bren away, make him regret trusting her with the details of himself.

Bren looks down, hands clenched tight into fists. They answer her more honestly than his parted lips will, but that isn’t—that isn’t entirely his fault, Jester thinks. Bren loves her too much to lie to her about this, and she’s… she’s _seen_ the scars, seen the way he stiffened when that man grabbed his arm at the ceremony. That lone gesture conveyed _so much_ , the way Bren reacted to it and immediately became the perfect groom revealed so _fucking_ much. “He’s as nice as he should be,” Bren murmurs. “Wouldn’t be a very talented teacher if he indulged my… my shortcomings, would he?” His voice quiets down as he finishes that sentence, like it costs him so fucking much to breathe out these words.

“The Traveler is _nice_ to me even when I _mess up_ ,” Jester says, after a moment. “He was _so_ nice after _Rexxentrum_ , you know. I felt… bad and stupid, and he was nice to me when I wasn’t… being nice to myself.” He watches her carefully and she tries to give him an encouraging smile, despite the… _hatred_ slowly building in her chest. “I feel like you beat yourself up _enough_ , Bren. I think you _see_ your shortcomings. I think your teacher should be _nicer_.” _And maybe dead in a ditch_ , she thinks privately. _Where he can’t ever_ teach _anyone ever again._ That’s entirely too harsh for her to say to _Bren_ , but… she will be harsh where he can’t be. She _will_. “He’s nice to me even when we disagree.” She thinks of the sunflower she put out back onto the ground, thinks of the envelope on her fucking desk.

Bren is rubbing his arm, his gloved hand over that coat, and he’s tilting his head, trying to think of a way to say everything he must be _feeling._ His fingers thrum slightly against his arm. “He should be nice to you,” Bren says, his voice a little distant. “If I didn’t… embarrass him and fail his standards so often, Master Ikithon would be plenty _nice_ to me.” Jester _frowns_ , but doesn’t interrupt, not as he bites the inside of his cheek and averts his gaze. His hand taps rhymically against his arm as he tries to think of a way to _explain._ Jester is so glad he’s bothering to _explain_ at all, trusts her enough to even try to _._ “But he isn’t… he isn’t perfect, and… Jester, if the Traveler was… thinking something bad, something wrong, how would you… help him?” His face twists, looking so _pained_ , and then he’s controlling it again, looking at her curiously. His eyebrow is raised.

Oh. Oh, _wow._ Jester does _not_ like the way Bren compared his teacher to her _god_ , even though Jester admittedly compared the two of them first. _Unintentional_ , it was _unintentional_ —but the thought that Bren thinks of Ikithon as a _god_ , as _his_ god, is kind of horrible to contemplate. Jester sighs, fingers clenching at the bag on her lap. It’s kind of… _huge_ that Bren doesn’t think Ikithon is _perfect_ though, and she tries to think of a way to… non-judgmentally say that _Ikithon is terrible and you need to leave him and I love you so much, you don’t deserve this, you don’t, you don’t, you don’t—_ “It depends on what the bad thing he was _thinking_ was, you know.” Jester bites her lower lip, giving him a comforting little smile. “Can you… can you tell me? I _really_ want to help, Bren.”

He’s still looking away, and his breathing is _finally_ uneven, like the facade is a little too brittle, a little too _much_ for him to keep limply holding onto. He’s _blinking_ , hands clenched so, so _tight,_ and Jester would very much like to put her hand on his. She just doesn’t think Bren could forgive her if she did. That’s actually not _true_ —he _could_ forgive her, just not himself. Never himself. This is red line right now, and she can’t cross it. “I had a friend,” Bren mumbles, his words strained like he’s forcing every single one out through his lips against his will. “I had a friend, and his name was Eodwulf.” He smiles all helplessly. Jester cocks her head, remembering that _name_ —the person who scarred Bren. The person who makes his lips curve all fondly. “He liked daggers, it was one of the things he lorded over me because I… usually excelled, but I faltered in this.” He smiles like he’s remembering something funny. “He taught me, made sure I didn’t… didn’t disappoint Master Ikithon. Knew it was important to me.”

Jester nods, even as her stomach twists. Friends who stab him. She wonders if it was Eodwulf’s _choice_ , or if it was something Master Ikithon made them do to each other. She _knows_ Bren was in some shady _shit_ before—shady shit that meant he was trained and hurt and _tortured_ , her mind whispers, _he was tortured_ —but this is all so _much_ , and so _big_ , and so _terrifying._ She _wants_ to help, but she doesn’t know _how_. “He must’ve been a good friend, huh.” Jester tilts her head to him, making her face all gentle and open. “If he taught you cool things like that.”

Bren closes his eyes. “Sort of… sort of like a boyfriend,” he murmurs, his voice all _rough_. He’s sitting all _still_ , and then he barks out this breathless little laugh that breaks through the cool silence of the air. Bren runs a hand over his face, and his smile is so _broken_ , so _lost_ , so _twisted_. “Wulf is an asshole, and he—he deserved what he got, trust me”— _I deserved what I got, trust me, Lavorre, please trust me,_ she can practically _hear_ him saying, _has_ heard him saying countless times, _better than I deserved_ —“and he was so _disobedient_. But one of the reasons… Master Ikithon didn’t like him was because… he doesn’t understand.”

There’s a palpable since, before Jester exhales, jaw clenching. “Understand,” she echoes quietly. Her voice is open, open, _open_ , so painfully open. “Doesn’t… understand that boys could like other boys?” Her tone becomes a little sharper than she intended near the end, and she feels so _sick_ right now. _You bastard_ , she thinks numbly. The rage hasn’t quite kicked in, not quite yet. _His queerness is fine when it’s something you can exploit, huh? You… you fucking abusive manipulative piece of shit, how many lives have you destroyed?_

Bren sighs and runs a hand through his hair, ruining the perfection—not that it _fucking_ matters. He looks _good_ disheveled, _good_ with his hair mussed, and that doesn’t matter either. Bren should be allowed to be imperfect, allowed to be _this_ , whether it’s romantic or not. He’s _trembling_ slightly, and it _kills_ Jester how she _knows_ that if she touches him, he will _absolutely_ close off, jerk away, get up. This is the closest he’s come to… admitting, just _admitting_ , and it’s horrible, but she has to endure through this. Make talking about his training as bearable as she can for him. Make her eyes on him gentle. “I just wish he could understand,” Bren whispers. “He’s _such_ a good teacher, Lavorre, he’s _so_ good… and Essik doesn’t trust him, and… and I don’t…” His voice breaks off, and he’s blinking _something_ back, like he can hardly contain himself, contain the way his breathing is off, not perfect.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to understand,” Jester says just as quietly. Her hands are digging, digging, _digging_ into the bag, and she wants to kiss him _so_ badly, make him grin in that way he only does around _her_. It’s… it’s so _hard_ to be sad, to be ruined, and Jester doesn’t know how to help him through it, she can’t even help _herself_ through it. Bren looks like his heart is broken, and Jester doesn’t know how to tell him he needs to stay _far, far away from Ikithon, don’t ever let him near you, don’t be alone in the same room with him, please Bren—_

“I don’t understand that,” Bren says curtly. He’s staring at her, trying so _desperately_ to see it the way she’s seeing it, and all that trust and hope and confusion playing out on his face is fucking _crushing_. She wants to put her hands on her face and kiss him, try to tell him that ragged sob he’s been keeping compressed in his chest for so long— _Traveler knows how long_ , Jester thinks, stricken—is _alright,_ he’s _alright_.

Jester just smiles sadly at him. “It’s because you’re better than him.” Her voice is _sure_ , and when Bren wrinkles his nose at that, she just shakes her head. “I think so, okay? And I _never_ lie to you. Never, I promise.” It’s one thing she’s kept constant—Bren has a lot of liars in his life, and she won’t be one of them. She’ll be different from the rest, no matter how much it costs her.

“… Ja,” he sighs, his knuckles all whitened from how tight his fists are, resting on his lap. “He… he appears harsh on the outside, I think I understand _that_.” Bren’s lips twist and he smiles. “Essik… Essik thinks he’s dangerous, and Master Ikithon thinks Essik is a… is a hypocrite, and I don’t know who to trust.” He pauses, and then his smile turns a degree less fake, just slightly more genuine. “I just know that I trust _you_. And I don’t… want Master Ikithon’s biases to affect this balance with Essik.”

_Essik_. Jester sighs. She thinks she might… need to talk to that man at some point, but she hasn’t talked to him since that wedding day, where she didn’t give the _best_ impression. She was _mad_ , but Essik didn’t seem _completely_ horrible. Not from her own read on him, and not from how Bren describes him. She might need to corner him down, might need to compare notes. Might need to grab him by his silver mantle and yell at him _to keep Bren away from Ikithon, you hear me?_ “… Don’t push Essik away for _this_ , Bren,” she says. “It isn’t… it isn’t _fair,_ you know? And he’s been… pretty fair with you.” Jester _can_ be grateful. Holy fucking _shit_ , being grateful just became a _lot_ easier when she just realized that Essik sees Ikithon as being the cruel man that he _is_. “And… and no matter how _muddled_ everything is, I’m always _so_ close, you know?” 

Bren watches her, and after a moment, he nods, the movement all jerky. “Ja, I… I know. I’m grateful.” He admits, more quietly, looking a little ashamed, “… I don’t _want_ to push Essik away. He’s been… he’s been good to me.” His gaze is averted, and that’s _guilt_ playing out on his face, in the way his eyebrows are furrowed and jaw is clenched.

“Good,” Jester says, fiercely. She doesn’t want Bren to be _guilty_ for seeking comfort, seeking closeness, in all of this, with Ikithon breathing down his neck. Not for Jester’s benefit, not when everything _hurts_ like this. She can’t _wait_ until the day she’s no longer forced away from him, when she can storm into that manor in front of everyone’s prying eyes and free Bren from all this _bullshit._ Bren is blinking at her like he’s _surprised_ by her assuredness, and Jester gives him a charming smile. “And you know, you don’t have to push _anyone_ away. My gift was gonna… bring us _closer._ ”

“Gift,” Bren repeats, eyeing her curiously as she pulls out a scroll from her pocket. “Oh, Lavorre, do _not_ tell me you broke your own rule and bought me something _expensive_.” His voice is so, so, _so_ rough, but he’s looking at the scroll so _brightly_ , and Jester grins as he takes it from her hand. Their skin doesn’t touch but his closeness is still _dizzying_. He looks to it, and then opens it, raising an eyebrow as he careful gaze pores over those little runes. Jester watches him _eagerly_ , and after a minute, he actually _laughs_ , the sound so rough and broken and _him_ , he’s still _here_ and he isn’t _pretending._ His face is both still a little listless and kind of happy, his lips quirked up, and it’s this brittle sad-happy Jester is _all_ too familiar with. “ _Dream_ , Lavorre?” Jester’s impish smile _widens_ , and he shakes his head, looking at her with _deep_ admiration.

“No touching,” Jester says, grinning. She has spent the last two months _searching_ for spells, _searching_ for enchanted items that could make coping with all this easier. It was her lightly questioning _Calianna_ that made all the pieces come together, made he realize _exactly_ what she was looking for. “See what _Lord_ Theylas has to say to _that_.” Bren raises an eyebrow, and her smile widens. “And it _wasn’t_ expensive, Bren—I didn’t pay a copper piece. A mage traded some of my art for his.”

“Violates the _intention_ of the rules,” Bren says, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s smiling, a little more happy than he is not, a little more _present_ than he is not, and Jester indulges in it, indulges in his rawness between them. “You’re… you’re something else.” His voice is a whisper. “How can I focus when you’re _something else_?” There is so much fucking _awe_ in that voice.

Jester tilts her head at him. Bren _sees_ her, he _really_ sees her, and tonight he wanted her to see him _too_. And she did. And they’ll _always_ have this, no matter what this life keeps throwing at them. “He’s a _genius,_ I would be disappointed if he _whines_ when he realizes I’m _smarter_ than he is.” 

Bren _stares_ at her for a moment, and then his smile _widens_. He agrees with her, this light finally back in his dark eyes, and leans back languidly as she fulfills _her_ end of the bargain and tells him all about the uneven _super awesome_ cake. She avoids talking about Nugget, and from how his intelligent eyes are fixated on her, she knows he can tell, and from how his lips are quirked, she can tell he’s that thankful. She tries to needle him into coming into her house, but Bren says _no_ , his voice all _firm_ in that way Jester knows she can’t push. She moves past it, and Bren looks so _grateful_ it makes her sick. _One day you won’t be grateful_ , she thinks, as Bren listens to her talk, his breathing slowly evening out as the night continues on. He will have to leave soon, have to go back to his life, but for _now_ , Jester indulges in his presence, and keeps the conversation open, letting him know with her eyes and her gaze and her _words_ that if he wants to _talk_ , _you_ _can, Bren, I promise._

He doesn’t indulge in her the same way she indulges in him, but that’s _okay_. He’s being pulled apart right now between all these _interests_ , and Jester tries to keep him together, tries not to feel _bitter_. That can wait until _later_.

The envelope waits in her room, and Jester, watching Bren’s eyes as she makes a joke and he cracks a smile, makes her decision. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you lie next to her  
> And give her your heart, your heart  
> As well as your body
> 
> —Mumford & Sons, [_White Blank Page_](https://open.spotify.com/track/06YV4yr9sdJqSNj4HjZk2s?si=lJJUg9qtTrqc3_gPTeCozA)


	3. Essik Theylas, Winter of 835 P.D.

The truth of the matter is, Essik Theylas isn't such a good person.

That isn't an incredibly condemning remark on his own part—he used to be the fucking _Shadowhand_ , and being a spymaster who reported directly to the Bright Queen isn't a post known for its stringent moral _values_. He has made calls, decisions that he still mulls over in his head—the decision to leave the spy caught in the sewers of Zadash many years ago comes to mind, when the young upstart, not much younger than _Essik_ himself, failed to retrieve the final beacon that in large part sustained the war of attrition between the two sides. The man begged him for aid, assistance, stumbling over his words as he insisted that _we can take these forces with you, Shadowhand, please do not abandon me_. Essik listened to the message sent by _Sending_ , gritted his teeth, and then told his assistant with flat eyes to _immediately_ change all the access codes the spy would've had access to.

When an undercover Cerberus mage attempted to use an outdated code to trip up the magical protections on an underground safehouse along the disputed territory— _disputed_ , Essik muses, _such kind words I use these days now that I've married an Empire agent, such gentle words for stolen, invaded, colonized_ —he knew he made the right call. The Bright Queen herself told him so, hand on the silver mantle as she looked to him with approval, and he met her gaze, quelling that _doubt_ , the little nagging string of his thoughts in the back of his head that wondered, despite his _certainty_ that he made the best decision he had available at the time, how much this would cost them all. How much _sooner_ the war could've ended if they'd only retrieved the final beacon _quicker_ , if he'd only been a _little_ bolder in what he advocated for in that chamber, the Umavi raising an eyebrow as he gave his counsel.

Essik thinks about this _goddamn_ marriage just as much.

He remembers the day his mother brought up a random, inconsequential diplomat all too much. _He's handsome, Essik,_ she trilled, leaning over to look at the crossword puzzle on his lap as he sat on the couch. She smelled of cinnamon, and Essik _grimaced_ , all too used to his mother needling him about this particular bone of contention between the two of them. He looked over his shoulder, and his mother gave him a challenging look. _I warned you_ , she said, crossing her arms as he raised an eyebrow at her. The jewelled bangles on her wrists chimed against each other, and Essik sighed, deeply. _Did I not warn you? The word is_ adjudicate, _by the way._

Essik braced himself, writing _adjudicate_ into the crossword while she smiled smugly. He avoided visiting his mother's house for the last couple of weeks since his thirtieth birthday—the two of them agreed not to bring this up _then_ , to allow Essik to tolerate his younger cousins smashing cake onto his face in peace—but this was a long time coming, and Essik crossed his legs as she sat beside him, her hands smoothing out the crinkles in her dress. The pearls in her curly black hair looked beautiful, like the stars in the dark Rosohna sky, and he watched as she raised a hand to tuck a loose strand behind her ear. _You did warn me_ , he admitted, even as his shoulders braced for the argument.

Imrae Theylas smiled indulgently, and Essik knew he was going to lose—and honestly, the fact that he most certainly _would_ didn't bother him much at _all_ , he knew this was ultimately his choice and his parents wouldn't force him into a marriage that he didn't actually want to take part in. So he grinned when Jevan teased him about taking another's last name— _he wouldn't dare_ , Imrae said _immediately_ , making Essik nearly cough out his tea as he struggled not to laugh at how _insulted_ she sounded—and he smiled through his mother's suggestions, groaning and rolling his eyes and occasionally smirking.

Then one day she asked him to meet her— _told_ him to meet her, he thinks with an amused quirk to his lips, Imrae Theylas didn't _ask_ —and her voice was _serious_ , a punctuated silence between her sentences.

Essik sighed, telling Lythir to run the last trial without him— _if you fuck this up, I will skin you_ , he said pleasantly, and Lythir rolled his eyes, retorting that _if I fucked this up, I would skin myself_ —before leaving his office early. He floated down the streets of Rosohna and grimaced at the sun beating down on him, wearing all black and suffering _immensely_. He _infinitely_ preferred the dunamancy-induced glittering night, the sky was too bright for too long if it wasn't a long-accepted practice, but it was his _mother_ , and she would _laugh_ if he said he would not arrive until later because of the _heat_. She would shake her head, the pearls trembling in her hair. _Are you_ sure _you're Theylas?_ At least it was nice to no longer be accompanied by those incessant guards now that he was just a researcher, not the Shadowhand. Nothing quite like being guarded by those he could kill with the flick of the palm.

The housekeeper greeted him and led him into his mother's office, down the hallway to the right. Her sole footfalls _clacked_ against the floor paneling, and he nodded to her before entering his mother's office, smiling to her as he closed the door behind him. _Mai_ , he said, as she closed the file she was reading and clasped her hands together on the desk in front of her. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of his sentence, and his smile widened as he sat on the chair in front of her desk. _Your last message was rather ominous_. He crossed his arms and allowed a note of concern into his voice. It was _unlike_ his mother to ask him to cut his workday _short_ , and for a moment he entertains the horrible possibility that something terrible actually might’ve occurred. _Is there anything actually the matter?_

 _It's to do with a_ suitor, she _sighed_ , and then narrowed her eyes as Essik _groaned_ , his shoulders slumping in relief despite his cocksure act. He straightened his back at her expression and she shook her head. _This is serious, Essik_. She stared at him until Essik looked properly contrite, and then leaned back in her chair. _He's perfect for you._ Imrae crossed her arms and bit the inside of her cheek, and Essik furrowed his eyebrows at _perfect_ , and she grimaced. _Jevan couldn't_ believe _how much he's everything you would enjoy. Intelligent, accomplished, your age—like I would allow some ancient noble in Rosohna in his fifth lifetime wed you anyway—and he's handsome by all accounts—_

 _I am sensing a big but,_ Essik said, and he smiled when Imrae pursed her lips unhappily. _What, is he in prison for murdering his entire family?_ He mirrors his mother's position and also leans back in his chair, settling in for some sordid tale of which this young, handsome, intelligent and accomplished man found himself the protagonist of. _Embezzling money,_ Essik thinks. _Fathering a child that he then abandoned to some penniless partner._

 _It's a well-kept secret, genuinely._ Imrae smirks a little, though her face is stony, already annoyed on his behalf over this hypothetical fiance. Essik resists the urge to widen his grin—he _loves_ his mother. _He has a mistress he is apparently_ desperately _in love with._ She frowned as Essik leaned forward, and he _knew_ his eyes were bright with interest and amusement. _I know this would be a political marriage regardless, but I_ doubt _you would want to share a husband with someone he chose first, chose without pressures, has known longer._

 _... I should like to know about this man,_ Essik said slowly, and Imrae watched him carefully, her eyes searching his face. He grinned at her. _I trust your judgement, Mai, and if he's intelligent, handsome, and accomplished by_ your _standards…_ She rolled her eyes at his trailing insinuation, but she leaned forward too, head tilted as she listened to him. _I'd like to know this man, the details of him. And I'm a little insulted you think this little distraction of a mistress could pose such an existential challenge towards me. Since when do we balk so easily?_. By the _Light,_ Essik was _interested_ , curious from these opaque details, and from how his mother's lips slowly pulled into a little smile, he could tell how _much_ she wished to indulge him.

 _You deserve better than a liar, my starlight._ Imrae stared at him. She was _smiling_ fully now. _This man misleads_ everyone, _you deserve better than that. Someone who puts you first._

 _That wouldn't immediately come in the first day of any_ arranged _marriage,_ Essik said. His smile turned sharp, and Imrae's eyes _glittered_. He and his mother were _so_ alike, he could tell he was reeling her in. _And if this mysterious suitor lies to me, lies about his flaw, this chink in his armour, well. We can throw him to the curb. But I don't mind a sinner whose sins do not touch me and don't shame the den. And I want you to tell me more about him, your vagueness is positively_ tormenting.

Imrae was still for a moment, and then she shook her head, this little laugh escaping through her parted lips. Essik knew he had her. _You_ , she said, _are my favourite thing about this world. His name is Bren Aldric Ermendrud, and he's a lord of one of the states newly established in the Dwendalian Empire. I will tell you about him, and if he lies I will eviscerate the bastard._

But Bren _didn't_ lie. Imrae raised an eyebrow at him, her hands both on one knee, her legs crossed. _Break up with your mistress,_ she said, curt and challenging and to the point. Her shoulders were tense, waiting for him to falter, waiting for him to lie to her face, and he… didn't. His voice wasn't as smooth as it had been when that archmage was with him for that first meeting, but he seemed more _real,_ more like a _person_ and not a perfect dream meant to allure Essik into becoming complacent with dunamantic secrets. he said that he _couldn't_ break up with that woman, like his love for one Jester Lavorre was as assured as the laws of nature that ordered the world.

Essik _grinned_. The Kryn _prided_ themselves on upending the laws of nature, didn’t the lord of the Zemni Fields _know_? He watched Bren give him this beautiful smile, this wonderful mirror to the way his own lips were outstretched— and there was that _perfect_ hint of contrition in there, in the way that he quirked up his lips when Essik pointed out how _careful_ he was to say he wouldn’t lie _about this_ —Imrae’s eyes flashed, but his own smile widened. Essik was fucking _enamoured_ , ensnared by his red hair and his pretty face and those dark eyes, and he knew it. _Good_ , he simpered, _I’m glad you won’t lie to me about your mistress, Lord Ermendrud_. Jevan smiled behind his cup of tea.

Bren nodded, his hair all pretty and coiffed and nice around his pale face, and Essik watched the way he shifted in his seat as the three of them watched him. By the _Light_ , even his _movement_ was more dynamic with that archmage— _Ikithon_ , Essik thinks with distaste, _with the jaundiced skin and the receding hairline and the too-tight grip on his then-fiance as they walked up the platform_ —and Essik realized, as Bren tilted his head, that… he was falling _deep_. He was entranced by Bren’s accent and his stance and the way he held himself, mirrored himself, intimately aware of Essik’s gaze on him. It was so _interesting_ , and so _promising_ , and so much _more_ than anything anyone in Rosohna was offering.

So he gave Bren rules, and his smile became more smug, more _pronounced_ , as Bren agreed to them, seeming so _relieved_ Essik was still going for this. _Haven’t disappointed your teacher yet,_ Essik thought, as he told Bren he could not touch his mistress until Essik was sure enough of the precautions being taken that the affair couldn’t leak out. He could not meet her without telling Essik that he planned to. He could not invite her to the manor without giving Essik a warning. And he could not lie about _anything_ regarding this affair, particularly something that could embarrass the den.

Bren nodded, and agreed, and he didn’t _lie_. Though Jevan’s curled lips didn’t become particularly more gentle during the course of the meeting— _ah, loyal to the mistress, just what you want in a husband_ , he said, making Imrae smirk and Essik give him a pointed _look_ —and though Imrae’s face didn’t become any less impassive, her tilted face any less judgemental… Bren made an impression, and Essik was _entranced_. Afterwards Jevan sighed, and Imrae raised her eyebrows at Essik’s pleased face, and everyone knew this wedding was _happening_.

So he currently has no one else to blame for his current misery.

Essik sits alone in his marital bed, his back against the headboard and pillows. He wears silken robes, all black and pooling around him. The glittering darkness seems _depthless_ , completely encompassing him, but his arms are visible, the sleeves pulled back as he crosses them, staring with no particular interest at the intricate locked double doors. Their panelling is beautifully designed, and the edges have carved patterns of the moons in their different stages during their cycles. Essik found it pleasing the first time he walked into his room, Bren stiff behind him as he walked over, brown fingers tracing the pretty runes. He knows in the back of his mind that he could open those doors right now, and revel in the starry night. He could look to the two moons and the constellations, and the feeling of smallness in his chest would be _comforting_. He could take even breaths and close his eyes and breathe in the night air. He could stop his mind from racing furiously, could calm the fuck down and figure out how to proceed from here.

 _Fuck_ , Essik thinks, scowling. The moonlight shines through the curtained windows so _temptingly_ , but he's in no mood to _calm the fuck down_. Goddamnit, he wants to _sulk_.

And he is. _Sulking_ , that is. Because he asked Lythir to watch over his husband— _husband_ , Essik thinks rather uselessly, his heart seeming to flutter in his chest, despite the terse situation, _I have a husband_ —because Bren seemed all strange and jumpy before the gala. He tended to be this way around his teacher, was this way when the archmage accompanied him to Imrae's estate. He hid it admirably well then, all charming smile and dark eyes— _dangerous_ Essik thought then, thinks now, knowing this man was a supposed _war hero_ , knowing he was connected to the political machinations of the archmages in Rexxentrum, knowing _his smile was dangerous_ —but _now_ … Essik frowns deeper, sinking into the pillows around him. Bren was so _nervous_ , so _unsure_ , so _upset_ that Essik could tell this about him.

 _There's something on the tip of your tongue that you're keeping yourself from hissing out._ His hand was touching the cool fabric of Bren’s pretty glove, and all Essik could think about was that _wedding_ , when Bren took that thing _off_. He averted his gaze from Essik’s then, his face still and impassive and _embarrassed_ , he was _embarrassed_. Essik wanted to whisper something, even opened his mouth, but the Pelor priest interrupted the solemn silence by beginning the rites, and _thank the Luxon he did_. Because they were strangers. They were strangers and Essik’s stilted words would’ve made him crawl into himself even _more_. Bren was _stiff_ , and his smile was _perfectly_ pleasant, and Essik couldn’t stop thinking about that too-tight grip a jaundiced hand had on his arm, couldn’t stop _thinking_ about how the only other person who seemed to notice was that _Lavorre_ woman—and _oh_ , wasn’t _she_ a sight. Essik earnestly hopes for her own benefit that woman never spends much time in close proximity with his mother, he doesn’t think Lavorre will survive that.

 _Something on the tip of your tongue…_ Essik _knows_ he’s on the outside, _knows_ that it’s the reason why Bren won’t ask him for help in things as basic as making good impressions with other guests, why he’s sitting here alone and indulging his own misery while Bren fucking _dances_ the night away with Jester. _Not holding hands, though_ , he thinks, his thoughts both smug and bitter.

He _sighs_ , leaning back down onto the soft bed and grimacing at how _empty_ it feels. It’s only been a couple of weeks since they’ve started sleeping in the same room, and Essik is already _far_ too used to Bren’s body beside him, the heat radiating off his skin as he slept, his chest riddled with scars and marks that Essik _knew_ he wasn’t welcome to ask about. He first caught sight of them their wedding night, the two of them walking quietly to Bren’s room. The bedsheets were perfectly even, the entire room _perfect_ , and Bren was already taking off his gloves, this time the movement more smooth than when he hesitated at the ceremony. His fingertips were blackened and calloused, and Essik didn’t stare, only watched Bren’s face as he loosened his tie and came closer. He shoved into a pocket as he unbuttoned the first couple buttons of the silk shirt, already having taken off his coat when the last guest left.

 _Lord Ermendrud_ , Essik said, raising an eyebrow. Bren smiled at that, and Essik nearly fell for it, fell for the confident way that Bren bit his lower lip, looked to Essik with purposeful eyes. He ran a hand through his own hair, and _goddamn_ , Essik doesn’t _like_ dishevelled, thinks it looks _horrible_. But Bren, with his hair parted that _way_ , his gaze all dark and those blue eyes _warm_ and _dangerous_ in the lantern light? Essik was _entranced_ as Bren put a hand on his waist, Essik was _entranced_ as Bren tilted his head, watching the way the shadows cascaded all pretty on Bren’s face, Essik was entranced, entranced, _entranced_ —

And then his shoulders squared in that way they had when Bren reached out with a pen to sign the marriage document— _bracing himself_ , Essik thought numbly, _bracing himself to do something painful, something that would cost him_ —and so Essik pulled him back, a hand to his chest. It was only the silk shirt between his hand and the _warmth_ of Bren’s skin, but Essik pushed him _back_ , not allowing his eyes to catch on the hint of a long scar he could see part of from where the shirt was unbuttoned. _Lord Ermendrud,_ he said. _Bren._ He watched something flit on Bren’s face, something that looked an awful lot like _relief_ in how he creased his forehead, and then _shame_ in how he blinked, allowing himself to be moved to another foot back. Essik wanted to assure him, wanted to smooth out those wrinkles with his fingers, but the sickening thing was that his touch would bring more discomfort than anything else, and Bren would _endure it, he hasn’t disappointed his teacher, the architect of this entire fucking facade, yet—_ and it was so _awful_ , and Essik thought this entire marriage might be a strategic error on par with abandoning that agent to the Cerberus spies. _I would like to draw clearer boundaries with you if we’re to… breach that threshold,_ he said meaningfully, and Bren looked so fucking _ashamed_.

 _I would be honoured to bed you,_ he said, his voice low and dark. He was peering at Essik in that way meant to be seductive, and Essik sighed, running a hand through his own hair as Bren’s face finally seemed to _fall_ , finally seemed to realize that this night wasn’t going to go the way he had envisioned. _His teacher had envisioned_ , Essik thought, rather disgusted.

 _And it would be an honour on my part as well, but we hardly know each other. That should be… rectified._ He smiled at Bren, and then cocked his head to the innocent, perfect bed. _How many times has your mistress come on that mattress?_ His voice was conversational, and when Bren _winced_ , Essik raised a hand defensively. _A mere question, not a judgement. You’ve been honest so far._ He wondered if Bren was smart enough to hear Essik’s lilting insinuation that he could absolutely tell if Bren was lying to his face.

From how Bren’s eyes watched him, Essik thought he might be. _Many times_ , he admitted, and he had the decency to _flush_ , running a hand through his hair and looking a little embarrassed.

 _Ah, well._ Essik rolled up his sleeves. _I’m not sleeping in that bed tonight anyway. Tomorrow you burn the bed frame, or install it in some other room, and put another in this one. I plan to sleep in a guest bedroom regardless until… those boundaries are properly established._ He tried to emphasize _boundaries_ , tried to make his voice even and understanding and compassionate, but Bren’s eyebrows continued to furrow as he spoke, looking more and more confused.

 _If you insist… Essik._ The name was awkward in his tongue, and they shared in a stifling silence for a moment before Essik cleared his throat and Bren cast _Disguise Self_ , making him look the same but his clothes and hair not disheveled as he directed Essik to a guest room. The next morning the bed frame was being moved out into another room, and Essik grinned approvingly, leaning against the doorway as another was being put into Bren’s large master bedroom.

Bren, after a moment, smiled _back_ , though his face still looked vaguely tense, vaguely stiff despite the veneer of pleasantry, and Essik’s useless heart _fluttered_ regardless.

There is a _knock_ on the door and Essik _blinks_ , annoyed someone was interfering with his brooding. _Goddamn_ , he can’t even contemplatively daydream about his husband without being interrupted, and Essik _glared_ at the door. _”Yes?”_ he demanded, voice all harsh and clipped and haughty.

“My lord?” Lythir calls out from behind the large wooden door, and Essik sits up straight, running a hand through his hair and hoping he doesn’t look too much like a pining schoolboy before he casts _Mage Hand_ and opens the door with a flick of his wrist. Lythir stands there, himself still cloaked in those black robes that shimmer with starlight when he moves, and he tilts his head, hand tight on his staff. “Is this a good time?” He raises an eyebrow at Essik sitting there on the bed, looking grimacing and _annoyed_.

Essik sighs, deeply. If this were _anyone_ else besides Lythir, who relocated to Blumenthal with him after Essik asked him to— _would you make me continue our research by my lonesome, surrounded by his guards and my guards for company?_ —Essik would not allow himself to appear so _openly_ miserable. But he is _alone in his marital bed_ , and Jester is probably making Bren _open up_ , making that veneer of a smile split open. The thought makes him scowl, and Lythir gives him a sympathetic look as he closes the door behind him. “Do you have anything in particular you wish to say to me, or are you simply here to be witness to me slowly dying of my boredom in this _fucking_ manor?”

“I mean,” Lythir says, rubbing the nape of his neck as he grins a little. “No one forced you to _marry_ him, Lord Theylas.” He walks over to the corner of the bed and raises an eyebrow at Essik sitting there with his crossed legs. “No one forced you to come _here_ , the two of us could’ve been finishing our trials with the lab we were _used_ to in Rosohna, not this foreign one in the manor that I have to _completely_ renovate, costing _months_ of testing. You could’ve married that suitor from Rexxentrum, or struck up that flirtation you had with that man from Den Olios—”

“Oh,” Essik said, shaking his head and glowering with no real heat at his friend. “I’m sorry my _marriage_ is so _inconvenient_ to the _research_ , VaSuun. I already _know_ it, every _day_ I’m not working in that laboratory while the equipment is being implemented is _personal_ hell for me.” Lythir scoffs lightly at that, and Essik _grimaces_. “I have… become a kept man.”

“You’re _so_ ”—Lythir stops, and shakes his head, looking slightly in disbelief—“you didn’t have to marry him, Essik, and the laboratory will be running soon enough. If this continues to be so _miserable_ for you, you could quit and leave all this, you know?” His voice becomes slightly more gentle, slightly less conversational as his sentence lilts to the end. “You could leave the Empire bastard and do whatever you want. And I would help you.”

“And let _her_ win,” Essik says scornfully, and Lythir’s sympathetic expression _drops_. Essik smirks at his expression and straightens his back, looking as dignified as he’s able when he’s in his bedroom robes. “I allowed myself to be distracted from my own question. Is there anything you wished to say to me?” He remembers him asking Lythir before he chased down Brada at the gala to keep an eye on his husband, watch that strange teacher that whispered something in Bren’s ear when the two of them were greeting people into the manor. His grip was _tight_ on Bren’s shoulder, tight like on their wedding day, and Essik didn’t like how Bren stilled under his touch, didn’t like the shadows in his eyes. “Was everything okay with the _archmage_?” He shifts his jaw as he remembers Bren immediately leaving as the last guest left through the gate, his face becoming distant and cold and _grateful_ as Essik said that he would _see you, husband._ It made Essik’s chest feel all tight and strange and splintered. _Something_ happened in this manor, during this party, to his husband, and Essik doesn’t _know_ what, because Bren doesn’t trust him. It’s all a little frustrating, all a little… all a little isolating. _Gods_ , how _pathetic_ is he?

Lythir exhales through his teeth. “You were right,” he said, fingers tapping rhythmically against the wood of his staff as his jaw shifts. “As always.”

Essik sighs, crossing his arms. _The one time I didn’t want to be,_ he thinks, gritting his teeth. He remembers catching Bren and Lythir standing apart in the crowd, remembers that too perfect smile on Bren’s lips. He was listening to Brada, who talked _endlessly_ about her _perfect_ baby, patiently waiting for his turn so he could talk about his last published study in the Rosohna Scientific Journal, and Bren looked so _languid_ , so politely interested in the machinations of various diplomats and land barons who attempted to accost his attention. He wanted to _leave_ , and Essik wanted to walk over to him, tell him he _could_ , that it was _okay_ , that Essik would figure it out, that he find a way to excuse Bren’s absence. Then Bren’s gaze met his, and his back straightened—all the little signs of his discomfort eased away, and he looked splendid in how his head was cocked as he spoke to people, his eyes all bright and dynamic. He paid close attention to those who talked to him— _at him_ , Essik thinks cooly, _how dare they?_ —and his lips quirked up, making comments that caused others in his conversations to bark out laughs. Bren was performing, and Essik knew that any attempt by _him_ to… lessen Bren’s burden would only push Bren further away, only make Bren’s face twist with shame and resentment.

So he was _cowardly_ , and he talked to Brada. Her dark eyes were glittering as she tilted her head at him, eyes flitting between Essik and Bren charmingly working the crowd. _When are you going to have children, cousin?_ She cocked an eyebrow, looking beautiful and elegant in her form-fitting suit. Her black hair framed her dark skin perfectly, her nails painted a light purple with the design of the beacons imposed on her nails in black— _gaudy,_ he had said immediately, and she had retorted, _Gorgeous_ —and her eyes were too damn knowing.

 _We’ve been married for_ two _months_ , he said, very tired.

Her smile widened. _I know Masi is already on your case about it. She wants pretty babies, Essik, and you haven’t been able to deny her yet._ Essik made a _face_ , and Brada sympathetically patted his shoulder, her hand on the silver mantle. _Momma's boy._

 _Stop_ , Essik mumbled. His gaze happened by Ikithon, who was talking with his hand tight on his own staff with another one of the archmages— _Vess DeRogna_ , he recalled, _for Antiquities_ —and he grimaced, looking back to Brada. _Have you met Archmage Ikithon?_

Anyone else would’ve blinked at his non-sequitur, but Brada was used to his racing thoughts, used to Essik jumping from topic to topic based on what captured his momentary interest. He was always like this, since they were both children and he was reading about the possibilities of heightening the dunamantic potential of enchanted artifacts through the use of residuum while she tried to goad him into jumping into the pool in her backyard while her friends splashed around alongside her. _Yes. He’s a_ pig. Her voice became quiet as she said _pig_ , essentially only mouthing the words, and Essik understood what she was telling him without words— _not here, cousin_. She looks around, and seeing that they were relatively alone in their corner of the throne room, she murmured, _He is… difficult, and… dismissive. But we must make peace with people who are difficult and dismissive._

Essik wanted to say, _How about abusive?_ , but that _really_ wasn’t the place for it, and… this wasn’t his secret to tell, and it wasn’t like he _knew_ for certain. Essik thought of the marks on Bren’s arms, seeing them from when Bren asked him to sleep beside him in the master bedroom— _I want you to,_ Bren said, _we can… keep those boundaries you’ve set but this is your room too_ —and he sighed. Because he knew the answer. Archmage Ikithon was a bastard, probably, and it wasn’t as if Essik could pull Bren away from him, not when Bren’s voice was coloured with admiration despite the hesitance in how he spoke when Essik asked him about his teacher. It wasn’t as if Bren trusted him enough anyway, trusted Essik enough to take his word that those scars weren’t _normal_ , that the cool and judgemental dismissiveness wasn’t _normal_ , that the way Bren turned into a facsimile of himself around this man who supposedly cared for him wasn’t _normal_. He shifted his jaw. _You’re right,_ he said flatly, and Brada looked at him all sympathetically. _You’re right, Brada._

 _You were right. As always._ Essik wants to bark out a laugh. _The one time I didn’t want to be._ These thoughts _spin_ in his head, and it’s Lythir shifting his weight from one foot to the other that snaps his attention back to him. “I suppose you failed to keep him from being alone with that man,” Essik sighs, tightening the way his arms are crossed.

“I just offered him a way out,” Lythir says, rubbing the back of his neck. His braided silver hair curls around to rest in front one shoulder, framing his brown face nicely. “He didn’t want to take it, and… thought I was _spying_ or some such notion on him.” Essik’s stomach drops, because fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he didn’t intend for _this_ , and Lythir grimaces, raising a hand defensively. “I attempted to clear this idea from his head, make it evident that it was just out of concern for his well-being.”

Essik thought of Bren’s cool, brittle face as he grabbed that bag from his office, clearly intended for Lavorre—the name is a little _cutting_ in his mind, a little _heart wrenching_ —and his gaze was all cold, all distant, all _far, far away_. “You weren’t convincing,” Essik says, his voice all flat, trying not to think—and _there,_ , he feels the words coalesce into a sentence in his mind. _My husband hates me._

“… He seemed like he had no idea _what_ to make of it all,” Lythir sighs, and Essik feels so, _so_ crushingly alone right now, he is _sulking here alone in his marital bed_. “I’m sorry, my lord. The conversation could’ve gone more smoothly, or I could’ve been… more discreet. I didn’t mean to cause a problem.”

Essik waves away his apology. It’s hardly Lythir’s _fault_ , it’s hardly _anyone’s_ — _except that goddamn archmage_ , he thinks, lips curling in distaste—and he’s not in the habit for searching for scapegoats anyway. Keeping an eye on Bren was the… was the right thing to do, the decent thing to do. And Essik _isn’t_ a good person, _isn’t_ in the business of being selfless—but he’s never been _married_ before either, and… this is what you do, when you’re married. You put other things beyond your momentary desires first. His heart seizes, and for a moment, he allows himself to uselessly ponder what he might do if— _when_ , a voice that sounds vaguely like his mother retorts in his head, _aren’t you a Theylas? Don’t give up before you start, it’s_ when, _not_ if—Bren does something like that for _him_.

Bren already does it for _Lavorre_ —that _fucking_ marriage, the way his face _twisted_ when Jester left through the double doors, pausing for a moment to give Bren a small smile before exiting through, everyone watching as she did. It was so _selfless_ , and it was so _good_ of him, and Essik was so _intrigued_ by this man whose big flaw is love. _He must only be that delicate with you_ , he said to Lavorre outside the manor, trying not so sound so blatantly _jealous_. Because Jester is a _rival_ , and she’s _good_ , and it’s a lot easier being confident when Bren is standing beside him and watching him with those dark eyes than it is _sulking here alone, while Bren seeks_ her _out_.

Lythir informs him on the latest developments in the renovations of the lab Bren provided for him. They’re very nearly done, and Bren has kept his word so far that his Dwendalian soldiers not be allowed onto the premises. Essik finds that pleasing, that Bren keeps his word. _Almost enough to compensate for the fact that he doesn’t love you,_ a lilting voice sings in his ear, that sounds vaguely Nicodrani, and Essik _scowls_ , making Lythir pause before Essik gestures for him to continue speaking, that pleasant smile back on his lips as he listens. By the _Light_ , Essik really _has_ had too much free time, he’s become so _frivolous_. Soon he can begin his research again and keep himself busy— _and maybe not feel so damn fucking alone in this strange land where everyone is hurting all the time_ —

“Thank you for your time,” Lythir says, ending his spiel and turning to walk outside the room. He pauses for a moment, and then looks back to Essik, who gives him an impersonal and gentle smile back. He looks like he wants to say something, word a comforting phrase together, and Essik’s smie turns slightly sharp. He doesn’t know what the _fuck_ he’ll do with Lythir’s pity, and thankfully his assistant seems to get this notion, only nodding once more before he continues to walk outside Essik’s bedroom. Essik listens to his footfalls and closes his eyes, slumping back into his pillows.

There’s nothing _to_ do, so he snaps his fingers and materializes his spellbook, preparing the spells he usually tends to prepare these days. It doesn’t take too long, and soon Essik finds himself back in his boredom, back to gazing with annoyance at the locked double doors he could free open in a fucking instant. The stars would make him feel _so_ much better, why is he so _intent_ on indulging in all these memories and racing thoughts and misery? Why can’t he just look up, up, _up_ at the sky and feel small?

Essik runs a hand through his hair, hesitating for only a moment before grimacing and going through those familiar somatic gestures, murmuring those arcane words under his breath. He nearly lets the spell die out in the last moment, nearly allows himself to fail in even this, but then remembers his mother’s smile, and steels himself. “Sat sri akaal, Mai,” he says, trying for an air of confidence. “Winter’s Crest went well, it’s a strange custom. Dwendalians celebrate with ornate trees and pretty lights.” Five more words. Five more words and Essik finds himself _blinking_ , wondering what the _fuck_ he was thinking with all his damn confidence. “You and Jevan should’ve come.” He _hates_ the mildly accusatory tone in there, and leans back, staring at the smooth white ceiling.

There’s a pause for only an _instant_ , and then he hears his mother in his head. _I didn’t know it was important to you,_ she says, and she sounds _upset_. Essik is in a real fucked-up mood, because hearing someone be _upset_ on his behalf is… kind of making it easier to breath through the unevenness he feels right now, feeling so pathetically _alone_. Imrae sighs, and Essik imagines her running a hand through her hair. She would’ve taken off her pearls by now, the conference ended an hour earlier and she’s usually about to go to sleep at this hour. _I’m sorry. Did you enjoy the party? Describe the pretty lights for me, starlight. Tell me everything._

Essik thinks through the words he wants to say, imagining those candles floating about along the hallways like out of some strange myth, those tables slightly raised in the air where people sat. Essik suggested before to Bren perhaps having some lights along the crevices of the throne room where the lights from the chandeliers wouldn’t reach— _the stars will always look beautiful, husband_ —and Bren actually _listened_ to his suggestion, telling his assistant who stumbled after him to _make it work, Hans, it’s a delightful idea._ Essik felt like a beaming schoolboy then, even as all he did was smile politely and tilt his head.

He casts _Sending_ again to his mother, trying to quiet down all these _thoughts_. “There were arcane lanterns set up like constellations on the ceiling. That was my idea.” He tries not so sound too pleased, and _knows_ from how his voice breaks the silence of the room with its lilting notes that he absolutely _fails_. “I’ll tell you everything, but…” He exhales through his teeth. “Forgive my tone, Mai. I know your conference was important.”

She responds nearly _immediately_ , and her voice is _sharp_. _Not as important as you, Essik._ He smiles at the way the fierce protectiveness strains her usually smooth tone, imagines her sitting up in her bed, _outraged_ at the _notion_ that he could even conceivable think otherwise. _Fuck_ , Essik misses her so much, misses Rosohna, misses everything. He needs his _lab_ , he needs to be _himself_ again, he needs it so bad he can hardly breathe. His mother’s voice _rings_ in his head again. _Ruadis is in its full moon phase, it's rather beautiful in the night sky. Absolutely stunning tonight, I swear._

He wonders if the fact that he’s sulking and _alone_ , so painfully _alone_ , is that obvious through the way he enunciates his words. His mother knows him like the back of her hand, and she knows what will make him feel better. Essik forces himself to sit up, and then, with movement all stiff and dragging and _unwilling_ , he floats up to the double doors, hand on one of the knobs. It’s cool to the touch, and Essik _sighs_ , hesitating for only a moment before unlocking it and forcing it open.

The night air is chilly, and the wind cards through his hair, and Essik looks up to where he _knows_ Ruadis is. It’s reddish-purple glow is bright, brighter than it usually tends to be, and Essik can feel a small smile quirk up on his lips as his eyes flit to his favourite constellations, leaning his elbows against the railing and allowing his feet to touch the cool floor. It’s lovely, and this induced heaviness in his chest feels _lighter_ , his previous sulking seeming so _useless_. It’s funny what talking to his mother gives him the nerve to do. She’s his… his strength, and his north star. He has more backbone when she’s egging him on, and he’s so _thankful_ for it. Everything suddenly feels so much more _manageable_. He casts _Sending_ once more, and says, his voice quiet as the trees shake with every billowing of the wind, _Thank you, Mai._

There’s a pause, and then she says, _You’re welcome_.

The two of them continue to talk into the darkness of the night, and when Essik goes to sleep, he’s all relaxed, languid in a way that isn’t playing pretend, playing at calmness and functionality with his husband all night long. He has a nice rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, I'm so lonely  
> So I open the window  
> To hear sounds of people  
> To hear sounds of people
> 
> —Mitski, [_Nobody_](https://open.spotify.com/track/6bTn1ovliI0OkjUNkiMBJq?si=6ImQREdoTCWfu9webJ12ug)


	4. Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Spring of 836 P.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for past sexual abuse—Bren briefly recalls seducing targets when he was a Vollstrecker. There is also a reference to canonical torture Caleb underwent as a child with reference to residuum, as well as body horror with the scars on his arms.
> 
> There is explicit sexual content in this chapter between Caleb and Jester.

Jester _moans_ , and Bren _smiles_ , his blackened thumb reaching out to run over her hardened nipple. Her hand is on his shoulder, the coolness of her _startling_ against the way his skin always radiates heat—he’s _so_ used to the burning, _so_ used to the sweltering, it’s only with her body against his that he realizes _this isn’t normal, this isn’t normal, this isn’t normal_ —and _ah_ , she’s _digging_ her fingers in, throwing back her head as he leans close and sucks on her other nipple. Her legs curl around his waist— _possessive,_ he thinks, just the slightest hint of his teeth scraping against her, making her sigh, making her back _arch_ , _you always want more of me_ —so he lowers his other hand, resting it against her ass as he pushes her back onto the mattress.

Bren cannot _believe_ Essik allowed this. The man is… incredibly decent and generous, Bren _knows_ how bad this all could’ve been, but Essik is _proud_. Bren _felt_ those fingers intertwined with his own on their wedding night tighten when Jester looked to them, _saw_ that languid smile widen as her jaw shifted. _You may not touch your mistress until I am_ sure _that this little affair won’t slip out past her bedroom and humiliate the Theylas name_. Bren figured it was maybe bullshit on Essik’s part, but after Imrae Theylas told him to _break up with your mistress_ , Bren grasped for the little ambiguity in Essik’s words—maybe he could use that later, maybe he could try to give Essik certain concessions, limited access to the restricted libraries in Rexxentrum, _myself, I could give him myself_ , he thought then, watching how Essik eyed him. His stomach was sinking, but Bren figured he could always give Essik himself.

But Essik pushed him _back_ , his dark eyes all wary, a frown playing on his lips—and Bren _failed_ , he failed and this was another avenue in which he couldn’t pry back access to Jester. His gut was _twisting_ with how much he _failed_ and how _horrifying_ Essik must find his burnt, scarred flesh that he was so immediately turned off. _It would be an honour to bed you,_ he said, catching himself in the last moment and forcing the light desperation out of his accented voice. His voice was low, all _wanting_ , head tilted as he considered Essik—his eyes were suggestively raking over his frame, biting his lower lip, still so _good_ at playing this little game. He fit into this mindspace like a familiar glove, like a second too-warm skin, he could feel it even in how he stepped back, Essik’s hand on his chest. Less warm, but then again, _everyone_ was less warm than him, and touch was a persistent reminder that he’s something _else_ , something _other_. Bren could feel his mind _spinning_ as he truly started to consider the depth of his loss, could feel himself thinking, _Master Ikithon would be so disappointed_.

_And it would be an honour on my part as well, but we hardly know each other._ Essik’s voice broke through Bren’s racing considerations, and his arms were crossed—his tone was _even_ , and Bren realized they were _both_ feigning casualness. His dark brown eyes looked like amber in the way the lights were reflecting off them, his brown skin smooth and beautiful and rich and _not_ scarred, _not_ burnt, _not_ calloused. Bren’s jaw clenched, realizing with sick relief catching in his breath like Eodwulf’s dagger in flesh that _Essik Theylas would not be baited by his body_. His heart sank, because he could practically _feel_ the sensation of Jester’s strong, firm arms around his waist disappearing forever. _Gottverdammt,_ to not even be able to _touch_ her—

But he _is_. His hand is trailing over that dip in her back, and then it’s back on her ass. She’s _sighing_ out his name as he lightly bites into her skin along her collarbone, that hand _squeezing_ on her. Bren smiles as he looks up at her, bracing all pretty on the pillows and the rumpled bed sheets as she watches, and comes back up, catching her lips in a heated kiss, hearing himself _groan_ as she slants her mouth _perfectly_ against his. Her tongue is searching in his mouth, her hand on his shoulder _sliding_ along his skin up until it’s on the side of his neck, fingers slightly running through the hair curling on its nape. “Lavorre,” he murmurs, his other hand slowly reaching down, down, _down_ , resting on her inner thigh and pushing her legs apart.

Jester _squirms_ under him, trying to shift with his hand where she must find it so _painfully_ close to her cunt. “ _Ja_ , Bren?” She grins at him. Their faces are close together, and Bren’s eyes trace over the way her freckled brown skin is darkened on her face, along her neck. Her breathing is uneven, heavier than it normally is, and the way her mouth falls open as he runs a rough finger through her wet folds, her hips rising slightly before he gently pushes her back down, is _heavenly._ She’s _divine_ , everything from her brushstrokes to the sighs and groans falling out past her parted lips fucking _radiant._ Her hair is all mussed, and he kisses her chastely as he thumbs her clit. She _gasps_ against him, _biting_ his lower lip for a moment— _perfect_ , he finds himself thinking, the hand _not_ in her reaching up to cup her cheek, the word all dizzy and _warm_ in his mind, _you’re perfect_ —and he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers.

Her skin is a balm against everything that _sears_ in him. He runs circles with his thumb on her cheek. “I missed you,” Bren sighs. Jester flutters her eyes shut as he says that, her lips curving into a sad smile. The sun from the window makes her brown skin glow, all brilliant and _alive_ , she’s so full of _life_ , and they’re in his _bedroom_ , the mattress all soft against his knees as he hovers over her. The bedsheets create rippling shadows as they rumple around her, and she’s all splayed out, her neck and her jaw and her chest and her breasts covered with little marks, these _perfect_ dark bruises—and _yet_ —

Jester _kisses_ him again, their teeth clacking as her hand rises from his neck and curls into his hair. Her fingers tighten around those strands and he allows her to direct their movement, still playing with her clit as he allows one finger to _finally_ push into her. Jester’s moan brings a smile to his lips, and she looks at him with her head tilted, biting the inside of her cheek. Her hair is so _disheveled_ , she’s still loose around his finger from when she came earlier, and she leans back against the mattress, watching him. “I _still_ miss you,” she says quietly.

And _yet_. Bren stares as her smile becomes vaguely bitter. This is just a beautiful shared dream, and as he knows as soon as he blinks awake, those bruises she left on his jawline with her sharp teeth and sharper smile will be _gone_ , those _marks_ her fingers gripping into his waist made will be _erased_. Nothing but their memories will keep this moment alive, and at least Bren’s memory is _perfect_ , at least he will always remember the way the orange hue of the sunlight through these false windows brightens the very _real_ shining of her brown eyes. Her memory is more fallible, and Bren’s heart _aches_ for her.

He remembers now how Essik’s lips pulled into this half-grimace, half-smile as Bren tossed him the scroll when he stumbled back from that conversation he and Jester had the night of Winter’s Crest. He still couldn’t quite _believe_ he aired out so many of his personal trepidations with Master Ikithon’s blindspots, especially with someone who already hates him so much, someone who can’t see how _lucky_ Bren has been, how _kind_ Master Ikithon is. _Took three rubes from the fields_ , Bren thinks, _it would’ve been an honour just to lick the dirt off his boots._ She was… she was kind, though, even if Bren didn’t quite— _doesn’t_ quite—get what she means when she said Master Ikithon didn’t _want_ to understand. _No one_ has taken an interest in Bren’s potential like he has, he just doesn’t know what she _meant_ —

Bren was already leaving the room when Essik cleared his throat. His dark brown eyes were flitting over the unfurled scroll, and he was _sighing_ , deeply. Bren stilled, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway, still _tired_ from his lack of rest—he stumbled into his bedroom _late_ , hating himself for finding Essik’s body beside his _comforting_ rather than being left to the isolation of the thoughts ripping through his head—and tried to dissuade the hope expanding in his chest as he looked to Essik’s face. Suddenly the possibility of having Jester’s hand on his own didn’t feel so _remote_ with the way his husband’s shoulders were braced in that way they do when he’s about to concede a point. “It’s for the _Dream_ spell,” Bren says, knowing Essik knows the intention behind Jester’s gift.

“Ah,” Essik says, putting the scroll back on the table and turning to look back at Bren with glittering eyes. He searched Bren’s face, and Bren tried to keep his features closed, tried not to show his desperation so fucking _blatently_. Essik crossed his arms, seeming _annoyed_ , but—Bren _blinked_ , staring at the way Essik’s forehead creased—not at _Bren_. He seemed more annoyed with _himself_. “Oh, that Lavorre woman is _entirely_ too clever, isn’t she?” Jester’s last name in his accented voice was so _strange_ —his voice dragged over it, tinged with the strain between syllables with resentment, but not… Essik _smiled_ tightly then, and Bren realized what was playing on his face.

Begrudging _respect_. It was there at the wedding too, when Essik sat beside him and watched Jester turn to give him one last look before leaving through the double doors. Bren tensed his shoulders then, _forcing_ himself not to get up, not to _follow_. This brightness was in Essik’s face, and his jaw shifted, and he didn’t realize _then_ , mistook it for smugness. But it was _respect_ , hesitant and annoyed though it was, and Bren could _feel_ traitorous hope in how his own arms were crossed, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ —

“Fair enough,” Essik sighed, and Bren exhaled, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. There was sudden, _dizzying_ lightness in his chest, and he began to picture his hands on her waist, his lips on her skin, his wretched fingers in her hair, pulling her closer, and closer _still_. Essik tilted his face at Bren as Bren stumbled through a polite and demure thanks, and he kept his hands deceptively still— _don’t tremble_ , he thought furiously, thinking of how Jester smelled like that strange flowery perfume her mother bought her recently, _don’t you dare tremble_ —as they went through the motions of the rest of the conversation. Essik excused himself, perhaps rightly sensing Bren was no longer present, imagining _her_ , imagining _this_ , imagining casting _Dream_ and having her gasping under him.

“Sorry,” she whispers, her breathing uneven. Bren realizes he’s still, and smiles at her apologetically as he begins to run circles around her clit with his thumb, flicking it occasionally. Jester sighs, pulling him close until his chest is pressed against hers, his dick straining against her thigh. She smiles as she feels him, smiles _wider_ as he adds another finger to the one curling inside her. “Didn’t— _ah_ —mean to _remind_ you of… of the outside.” Bren kisses along her jawline, stretching his fingers in as deep as he’s able, and her grip _tightens_ on his hair, forcing him to look at her. Her gaze is careful on his face. “Are you _with_ me?” Her voice is quiet, so _considering_ , and she’s _so gentle_ with him. _More gentle than I deserve_ , Bren thinks, and maybe she sees this thought playing out on his face because she gives him a _look_. “Because I don’t want to do this if you’re not _with_ me.”

Something inside him, maybe the creature underneath this uncomfortable skin, _twists_ at all the soft understanding playing out with the creases in her forehead, the tilt to her head. _Gottverdammt_ , he thinks, not even _knowing_ what to make of the uncomfortable feelings her kindness brings out. Lythir, watching him at the party, eyes dark and shoulders braced. Essik with his hand on Bren’s chest, pushing him _back_ , eyebrows furrowed and stance tense and feigning casual, looking _worried_ , so _worried, why the fuck are you worried about_ me, _Essik Theylas?_ And Jester… Jester first. Jester before all of them, asking him why his hands weren’t nice. She bit her lower lip when he revealed them to her, looking so _gentle_ , kind of like how she’s looking _now_. The lantern light made her skin look warm, like it was on fire. _But I thought you said they weren’t nice._

“Bren?” Jester whispers, leaning her head forward until their foreheads are touching again. Her breathing is more even, her shoulders less strained from when he was working her open, and she wraps an arm around him, chasing his warmth. _Always want more of me_ , he thinks, a little in awe. Bren exhales through his teeth and her hand on his hair is now on his face, her thumb on his cheekbone. “Gimme a _colour_ , okay?” Her brown eyes search his face.

The _colours_. Bren feels himself blinking, feels all these complicated, twisting thoughts turn to three words, three sensations: _green, yellow_ and _red_. When Jester suggested them all those months ago, one hand bunched up in her ragged dress, he thought she was maybe being _indulgent_ with him, that damned _smile_ on her face as those words left her lips. He _hissed_ to her that he wasn’t a _child, Lavorre._ His gloved hands were tightly coiled into fists, and his jaw was clenched, and Jester’s smile turned gentle then, too. She didn’t say anything for a moment, letting him stew in his anger and embarrassment, and he remembered her words from a lifetime ago, when she first saw his _fucking_ hands. _I’ve never patronized you, I’ve been honest._ “Jester,” he murmured weakly, _hating_ how weak her name sounded, low and wretched in his throat. It hesitated there, a damned _sin_ that it was allowed to be enunciated in his lilting, accented voice at all.

“I just don’t feel _comfortable_ having _sex_ with you without the _colours_ ,” she said, and she came close, hands reaching out to touch his face. He _flinched_ , just the momentary shift of his jaw, the slightest movement of his eyelashes, and Jester _froze_ , her hand still in the air for a horrible moment before she retracted her hands and waiting patiently for him. They were sitting on her porch, and her curly brown hair trailed out with the momentary push of the wind. The sunlight spluttered on her face in between cloud cover. “ _Please_ ,” she whispered, sounding so _careful_ , like she was controlling her voice. “Just _consider_ it? Safe words are _really_ important, something Mama taught me about when I got older. It was _real_ important at the Chateau, you know?”

Bren wanted to ask what his _tell_ was, how she was always able to see the underdeveloped lines in his performance and the loose threads in this flawed tapestry Master Ikithon made of him, why she always knew what _hurt_ … but instead, he let out a trembling breath. He ran his hand over his face before giving her an apologetic half-smile. Jester _never_ lied to him, it was her greatest sin and most benevolent virtue. If _only_ she were more duplicitous, his nature wouldn’t have compelled him to keep her around, teasing her and seducing her and _wanting_ her, chasing the light in her eyes like a wretch he was. _Selfish,_ he was so _selfish_ allowing her to care for him. “Tell me about your colours,” he murmured, trying not to curl into himself from where he sat. _Lift your shoulders_ , he could practically _hear_ Master Ikithon hiss in his ear, so he did.

Jester _grinned_ , this one more real, this one less out of her misguided need to be _careful_ with him. Her eyes looked bright reflecting the sunlight, and she carefully reached out again, watching like she was waiting for him to pull away. He _didn’t_ , and she rested her head against his shoulder. His stomach was still _twisting_ , but her touch didn’t feel so awful in that half-second. “Green means _alright_ ,” Jester said.

“Green,” Bren said then, and the way his lips quirked up to match the expression on her face was… unpracticed, unthought, unintentional. She brought that out of him. She brought out all his instincts, misguided and brittle that they were, and she negated all his damned _training_ with the way her arm curled around him into an embrace.

“Green,” he says now, his voice _sure_ as he _twists_ his fingers in her for a moment longer. Jester widens her eyes, _arching_ momentarily into him, pressing herself further against his cock. She smiled at him, smiled at the certainty that must shine in his eyes, and he leans his head close, lulling her into bruising kiss with tongue and _teeth_ as he retracted his fingers, hands gripping her thighs and angling them both. His blackened fingertips dig into her freckled brown skin, her thighs toned like the rest of her, and trails kisses along her jaw as he _carefully_ pushes down, down, _down_ —

She _moans_ into his mouth, and he _feels_ her hands digging into his skin. Her fingernails drag on his back as he thrusts into her, angling in that way that makes her words trail off into _desperate_ little sighs. He’s bracing on an arm, and she presses close to him, her breasts against his chest as he continues to run circles around her clit. He _grins_ as he feels her raise a trembling leg to curl around his waist. She doesn’t try to pull him closer with it, doesn’t try to interrupt the pattern of his thrusts, though he can tell from how her thigh shakes against his leg that her control isn’t _easy_. He explores her mouth with his searing tongue, long and _deep_ and claiming, and he _wishes_ so much that the marks that she’s leaving on his back could last, _I do wish it, Lavorre, I want them when I wake up, I want them when I look in the mirror, I do, I really do—_

“I’m _reallyyyy_ close,” Jester whispers, her voice a little wretched. Her shaky breath and punctuated silence between her hazy words are the _closest_ he’ll ever get to heaven, the closest he’ll ever get to heeding a prayer. She’s so _pliable_ in his hands, pressing her arms and her legs and her chest and anything she’s able against him. _Always wanting more of me_ , he thinks again, the way his hips snap into her becoming more uneven as she looks to him, her hair sprawling on the pillows. _Why do you always want more of me?_ “Bren, I’m— _ah_ —I’m…”

Bren times a thrust _deep_ into her with the way his fingers twist around her clit, pinching and insistent and _hard_ , holding her close with a hand on her back. He smiles as she _whimpers_ , widening the way his lips stretch on his face as he _feels_ her _tighten_ around him as her back tenses, holding her breath for a moment as she _comes_. She’s saying his name and he closes his eyes for a moment, knowing that the way it parts out from her soft lips will run through his mind _forever_. He opens his eyes then, memorizing the way her pupils are blown and her face is flushed, slumping back down against the pillows, her leg no longer gripping at him as she lays there, breathing heavily. He pulls out, _finally_ feeling that release he’s been chasing as he comes on her stomach, and then manoeuvres their entangled limps carefully before slumping back down beside her.

“Hey,” Jester whispers, smiling at him. Her gaze on him is strange, and Bren is caught between a desire to _move_ , do _something_ , and stay perfectly still, allow her clever eyes to examine him. She raises her hand back to his cheek and his tiredness wins out, so he lays there on those too-soft pillows as she pushes the hair off his forehead. “I _love_ you.” She kisses his forehead, and then the corner of his mouth, arm sliding around his waist so she can curl into him. Bren pulls her close too, and she giggles, head against his shoulder.

Bren blinks down at her before his half-smile widens. She always tells him that after they fuck, ever since they’ve had sex through the _Dream_ spell. Her eyes are always intent, bright and possessive on him, her chin jutted out as if to say, _They can’t take_ this _from me_. Bren assures her with his words and his lips and his body next to hers as much as he’s able, assure her through his kisses and his teeth scraping against her neck that _I am yours, Jester Lavorre, for as long as I fucking breathe._ “I love you too,” he says, and she kisses his shoulder, looking so _content_. He raises a hand and runs it through her hair, feeling her body pressed against his. Soon he’ll have to leave, and he _really_ dreads thinking about _that_ , so he just focuses on her breath. “When will you be coming back from Blumenthal tomorrow?”

Jester makes a _face_ as she thinks about the trip back from Rexxentrum. She’s been making trips back and forth the last three months, working on some paintings for the Archmage of Antiquities, creating paintings of the designated Empire-approved deities in the style of an old pre-Calamity artist to be hung up in the Hall of Erudition in Zadash. Bren is… kind of _shocked_ she agreed to this, one of the _first_ things that he learned about Jester Lavorre was that she _refused_ to work for archmages. When Jester averted her gaze as he expressed his surprise, sitting on the couch in her living room as she looked at her paint-stained hands, he realized _quick_ with dismay that she was doing this for _him_. Collecting favours for _him_. Making allies in Rexxentrum for _him._ Compromising on her morals and integrity for _him_. When he tensed his shoulders and prepared to tell her she _really doesn’t need to do this, Lavorre_ , she _glared_ at him. _Bren_ , she mumbled, _let me care about you the way you care about me._

He wanted to _chase_ that point, wanted _desperately_ for her to realize that he wasn’t _worth_ this, _worth_ saving, not worth sacrificing for like she was, but her jaw was clenched and her mind was set. He instead leaned back and began to discuss Rexxentrum’s unfortunate weather, and she smiled at him, agreeing and seeming _relieved_ they weren’t going to argue. Bren assured her that Lord Sharpe wouldn’t hurt her anymore, that Master Ikithon took care of that problem, and he didn’t grimace when _she_ made a face. He like her didn’t want to argue, not when she cared about him so helplessly much, and so they _didn’t_ argue. He just listened and watched her discuss what she would pack, stood by as she chased her destiny, even if it _hurt_ to watch her twist it to fit him into her life.

“ _Midday_ ,” Jester sighs. “Luckily DeRogna is letting me work on the last portrait at _home_ , she was pretty impressed with all the other ones.” Bren keeps his face open as he remembers the archmage, remembering meeting her at a party when he was seventeen. She gawked at him like the others, _staring at the little rube Master Ikithon cleaned up and put in a suit_ , he could _hear_ Wulf hissing as he loosened his tie, and Bren forces all that rage _out_ from his stream of thought. “Will I _see_ you at my house?” she asks, her voice all hopeful.

Bren smiles. “As if I would miss your triumphant return,” he says, his hand absentmindedly straightening out her messy hair. She closes her eyes as she feels them, looking so at _home_ in his arms, in this _perfect_ approximation of his bed. For a moment, he allows himself to indulge in this fantasy of another life, a life where he could’ve woken up with her against him, could’ve kissed her forehead easily and openly, looked to the corner of her room and found a messy canvas and her brushes everywhere, containers of paint on the floor in a perfect chaos. They could’ve had it, it was so fucking _close_ , and he couldn’t see it, see how damn _lucky_ he was, right up until Master Ikithon was tying him to someone else. _Fuck_ , it was so, so _close_ —

_Bad-bad-bad-wake up-bad._

Bren _snaps_ up on his bed as he feels pressure on his chest and displeasure radiating out from his head, from his _thoughts._ It isn’t _him_ , it’s _Frumpkin_ , and Bren looks to Jester apologetically, wincing at the _bad-bad-bad_ streaming into his head. It interrupts the lilting pattern of his own internal consciousness, and _normally_ it isn’t so bad, having another voice in there, but Frumpkin sounds _alarmed_. He told his cat to lay on his chest if there were an emergency when Bren was in this _Dream_ state, and there is an edge of _panic_ to those thoughts, the pressure feeling _tight_ , tighter than it _normally_ is. “I have to leave,” he says, grimacing and raising his arm to rub the nape of his neck.

Jester _stares_ at him for a moment, and she looks so _alone_ there in the bed, surrounded by fake-pillows and fake-bed sheets and a fake-mattress, the fake-sun illuminating her beautiful face. This is all she has, this is all his pathetic life was able to give her, this is all she could _make_ for them, to make the situation even slightly more bearable. He wants to _apologize_ , but Jester suddenly comes _up_ , pulling him into one last claiming kiss before letting go of his shoulders. He misses her touch _instantly_ and she gives him a bright smile that must cost her so, _so_ much. “Go,” she says gently. “I’ll see you.”

It’s a _promise_ , and he nods, eyes tracing over her face one last time before he lets go of the _Dream_ spell, feeling his heart break a little in the process. It _hurts_ to leave her, leave this, but he _has_ to, and when he blinks awake, sitting up and looking to Frumpkin in his lap, he hears muted _noise_ and the manor _shaking_. Dread builds in his stomach as he gently sets his cat on the floor, feeling the tremors on the floor and _ordering_ his cat telepathically to lead him in the direction of the chaos. _Gods_ , he was out for _two hours_ , how could everything go to hell in _two hours?_

His jaw tightens as his boots click against the hardwood, and he feels his panic _heighten_ as he walks down those winding halls and realizes his cat is leading him in the vague direction of Essik’s lab _,_ the most likely source of… accidents. The guards are getting ready in the halls, and Bren _glares_ as they grab for their shields, begin to run down the hall. Holy fucking _shit_ , he truly _detests_ all these people, it’s fucking _maddening_ being guarded by people who could smother to death with a mere _cantrip._ “Mobilize,” Bren snaps to one, and the man _whitens_.

“My lord,” he says, hand reaching out to grab Bren’s shoulder to stop him. Bren _stills_ , his gaze on the man _frigid_ — _suffer_ , Bren thinks contemptuously as the other guards look to the man with sympathy, _I’ll make you suffer_ —and the man’s hands drop, looking _terrified_. Bren reminds himself he has to bring Hans into his office to interrogate him on why the _fuck_ he hires dimwitted fools who don’t know better than to not touch him, and cocks his head, waiting for the rest of his trailing sentence. The man swallows. “We’re not… we aren’t allowed into the lab. Dwendalian soldiers aren’t allowed into the lab.” His words are _weak_.

“You’re _fired_ ,” Bren hisses, and then looks to another. “The manor is _shaking_ , and you’ve all done _nothing,_ I’ll _remember_ this. And I’ll handle it _myself._ ” He turns before they can respond and continues to walk with a brisk pace down the hall into winding pathway that leads into Essik’s laboratory, gifted to him when Essik pursed his lips and mused about how he needed a _private office of some sort to conduct my research, Bren_. His entire face _brightened_ when Bren offered him this space, and it was… it was beautiful, and Bren has to admit he was _surprised_ by the openness, on Essik’s face as he thanked him.

The memory makes his pace quicken, as do the occasional flowers on pots with geometric designs set along the halls. _We need to bring some life here_ , Essik explained as those flowers with their inky black and purple stems and petals were put on the tables. Bren wasn’t _quite_ sure about them, until Essik flushed a little and fixated his gaze on the ground. _And they remind me of home_. The decision was obvious then.

Bren pulls out one spellbook, preparing _Knock_ and pushing open the door to the laboratory as he comes up in front of it. Arcane runes extend out from his arms, all bright and intricate and glowing, and he _feels_ his cape rustling behind him from the magical pressure of the spell. Frumpkin curls around his leg as he walks down, eyes searching _frantically_ for Essik—

Who is _sitting_ on the floor next to Lythir. Bren raises his eyebrow as Lythir straightens up from where he was still leaning against Essik, but his husband simply looks at him wearily and _grimaces_. There’s light soot on his face, staining his perfect brown skin, and Bren watches his neck flush slightly under his gaze. He runs a hand through his white hair, trying to straighten out the disheveled mess that _also_ has soot in it, and Lythir stumbles to his feet, leaning on his staff as forces his back to straighten.

“My lord,” Lythir says weakly. “The tremors should… end soon.” His hair isn’t _quite_ the mess Essik’s is, already braided back, but soot is on his dark skin too, and Bren watches the way he sways slightly on his feet with narrowed eyes, leaning against the doorway and allowing some of the tension in his arms to filter out as Essik’s shoulders slump, looking completely _dejected_. “I’ll inform the guards,” he continues, giving Essik an embarrassed look before walking out past Bren, their shoulders brushing for a moment before Lythir is _gone_.

“You’re safe,” Bren says after a moment, looking at Essik _still_ sitting on the floor. The robes have pooled around him, and it’s strange _not_ seeing him in that elaborate mantle and cloak. What he wears underneath is more form-fitting, and Bren allows for a moment for his eyes to trace over his lithe form. He immediately feels _horror_ afterward— _you can marry him but you have to love me_ , Jester told him all that time ago, and can’t he do _this_ right, can’t he only love _her_ right?—and he looks to the strange cylindrical machine in the centre of the room. It’s _large_ , the size of several human people, and it’s attached to the floor in a complicated set of wiring and tubing and _magic_. There are arcane runes scribed all along the surface of the exterior of the metal and on the floor in circles around it. There’s a round hole through which Bren can see what they were experimenting with, and then his shoulders stiffen as he _realizes_ —

Essik Theylas is experimenting with _residuum_. Bren forces his breathing to remain even as he looks back to his husband finally getting up off the floor, bracing on his knees for a moment before he pulls himself up. It isn’t… _shocking_ that this man who was the Shadowhand to the Kryn Dynasty would know about such a secretive material, and it isn’t _surprising_ that he would want to use it, Bren _knows_ Essik is fond of creating new magical objects. It isn’t as if—Bren _winces_ , gottverdammt, his arms are _aching_ suddenly and he wants to _itch_ but he _can’t_ , not with Essik _watching_ —it isn’t as if this is particularly _shocking_ , that a scientist with his rank would have access to this. Residuum is… effective, and _useful_ , and Master Ikithon certainly got a lot of _use_ out of them. The scars feel so, so, _so_ uncomfortable under all his layers and his heated skin.

Bren _blinks_ back into attention as Essik sighs heavily, running a hand over his hair again before giving up and crossing his arms. He tilts his head to Bren and bites the inside of his cheek, flicking some of the soot off his robes. “I _wish_ it were an attack,” he says, and Bren truly admires how the man can sound so _haughty_ in how he enunciates his words even as the way his voice drags makes it _clear_ he’s miserable. He _snaps_ his fingers and makes an arcane gesture, and Bren watches his spellbook materialize out from thin air. Essik flips through it, looking a little frustrated. “I apologize for the disruption, it should end soon enough. I anticipate no structural damage to the manor.” He looks up to see Bren staring at the soot on his face and sighs again, deeper this time. “That was from _another_ experiment, Lythir managed to cast _Silence_ before it reached anyone else. It was… controlled.”

Bren, despite himself, finds himself _smiling._ He watches carefully from the doorway as Essik walks back to a table full of messy notes, decidedly _not_ staring at the residuum in the centre of the room. _Whatever_ Essik is enchanting, Bren doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to _look_ at it. “You do _not_ wish it were an attack,” he says after a moment, and Essik raises an eyebrow at him. His white hair seems to _glow_ in the light. “If it _were_ , you would need to allow my suspicious, untrustworthy”— _incompetent,_ Bren sneers privately in his head—“staff into your labratory to clean up all the blood, remember?” Essik’s eyes seem to _dance_ as Bren speaks, head cocked like he’s _surprised_ Bren is standing here, indulging this conversation. Bren wants to _wince_ , he knows he hasn’t been the… most welcoming host, and these haven’t been the most welcoming _circumstances_. Essik deserves better. _So_ much fucking better.

“They _are_ untrustworthy and suspicious, husband.” Essik rolls his eyes at Bren’s tone. _Teasing_ , Bren is being _teasing_ , and he wonders with distant horror how much these lines have been muddled. Everything seems so much more _obvious_ his wedding day. He loved Jester, he did not love Essik—but then he got used to Essik sleeping next to him. He got used to Essik sitting at the long dining room table, sipping his tea and reading the Rosohna Scientific Journal. He got used to trading barbs with the man as they got ready to sleep, got used to Essik ordering around his servants around his momentary whims. raising his head and smiling to Bren. “And they _are_ suspicious and untrustworthy.” His words are airy, but his shoulders are still hunched, and Bren _intimately_ recognizes embarrassment, _intimately_ recognizes the feeling of failure. He watches Essik finally raise his hand and make somatic gestures, the soot seeming to _rip_ out from his face, making him look as spotless and angelic as ever. 

_Just like Master Ikithon_ , Bren thinks numbly. He absolutely does _not_ flit his eyes to the shard of refined residuum, looking intently at Essik leaning against the table. “Of _course_ you know _Prestidigitation_ ,” he finally says, needing to say _something_ to fill the silence, lest it fester. Essik _narrows_ his eyes at the judgement in Bren’s voice, and Bren raises his hands, giving him an innocent look. He feels a genuine smile work itself back on his face, staring at Essik who looks so _bristled,_ so _bothered._ “ _Sorry_ , it’s a perfectly useful and legitimate cantrip. I’m the asshole for not having learned this.” Essik actually exhales, letting out a light laugh at that, and Bren keeps that smile on his face. 

No, Bren was busy having his hand splayed out, having fire ripped out from his palm at chained traitors who screamed at him for mercy. His twenties were busy smearing oil on his lower lip as he cast _Friends_ and smiling charmingly at targets, luring them to that predetermined secondary location. Sometimes it was a back alley for Wulf’s fists, and sometimes it was the high that came from Astrid’s poison hidden in their drinks, and if Bren were particularly unlucky, it was a bedroom, the target’s lips trailing over Bren’s neck. _Gottverdammt_ , he wants to scratch his arms _so bad_ , it’s been so _long_ since he’s had those shards _in him_ , but he _can’t_ —

“I wasn’t going to _say_ anything,” Essik says, interrupting the lilting, hesitating, _panicking_ tone Bren’s thoughts are heading into. He hesitantly walks over to the table Essik is bracing against, standing on the other side of it with his arms crossed over his chest. He notes that Essik doesn’t seem _bothered_ that Bren is standing here in his lab, and in fact looks a little _pleased_. Bren focuses on _that_ , focuses on the movement of Essik flicking more soot off his robes, and not on his arms hurting with phantom wounds, not on the glinting green in the corner of his eye that Essik was testing. “I _do_ apologize for the noise, however.” His shoulders straighten as the trembling of the floor slowly begins to subside. Essik looks so _relieved_. “Oh, good, the residuum”—it _hurts_ hearing that word out loud, Bren realizes, it _hurts_ hearing it in Essik’s lilting voice, talking about it dispassionately the way _he_ used to—“has stopped reacting with the rays of conjuration magic.”

Bren _stares_ at the unprompted sharing of information, and wonders with his stomach sinking if Essik Theylas has made the unfortunate error of _trusting_ Bren. He remembers Master Ikithon’s narrowed eyes as he told him to _spy_ on Essik— _prove to me you deserve this post I’ve entrusted to you_ , he hissed then—and look for evidence of this supposed _affair_ Bren is… kind of absolutely sure does not exist. _Don’t trust me_ , Bren begs with his eyes, his smile still on his face. _Don’t you dare trust me._ Essik watches him quietly and Bren averts his gaze, biting his lower lip and trying not to _wince_ , trying not to be so fucking _obvious._ “To be fair,” he sighs, “I also made a ruckus. I… _hate_ emergencies, everything seems to go too slow. And I’m better at protecting people than the people who are supposedly protecting me.” Essik looks at him with _understanding_ on his face, and Bren shifts his jaw. It’s _strange_ having this… kinship with Essik. “Not to sound arrogant,” he adds belatedly, and Essik smirks. “And I’m sorry to… intrude on your space.”

Essik shrugs, looking around. He still holds the spellbook in his hands, his head tilted as his gaze drags on the cylindrical machine in the centre of the room for a moment before he looks around to the other tables, more simple and recognizable contraptions set up on other spaces. It looks… like a _lab_ , something like what Master Ikithon had in Rexxentrum. There are design differences, the Kryn prefer more geometrical aesthetics, but _still_ … it’s difficult standing somewhere that seems so intimately _familiar_ but not. “Anything worth _stealing_ is here.” He taps his forehead with a finger, the movement smooth. “I just make my mess, and Lythir enables it.”

That’s… _unexpected._ That’s _trust_ on Essik’s expression, and it really _shouldn’t be_ , but Bren can’t find it in himself to twist his stance and words to make Essik reject it. He doesn’t _want_ to, and that’s _horrifying_. He can _feel_ warmth in his chest, kind of like that relief when Jester told him it was _okay_ if he was close to and confided in Essik, and it’s _dangerous_ , this is _dangerous._ “You were so _protective_ of this place before,” Bren murmurs, his voice all casual with an undercurrent of _something_. He hopes Essik is smart enough to catch it, and from how Essik’s jaw shifts slightly, watching him carefully, he thinks he _is_. And _oh_ , there’s that _fondness_ again. “Don’t tell me you’re getting soft, Theylas.”

Essik shrugs, resting the spellbook on the table. He twists the pearl ring on his finger, and Bren can spy little arcane runes around the rock in the centre, all pretty and shining and white. It’s Essik’s arcane focus, and Bren thinks it’s… rather sweet, how it pays homage to his mother’s affinity for pearls. It reminds him of casting _Dancing Lights_ for his own mother, watching her clap and grin at him as he struggles to keep concentration on the globules, hands trembling through the somatic gestures. The memory of her smile rips through his mind like a rusted dagger, and he closes his eyes for a moment, expelling the thought. He opens his eyes again to catch Essik staring at him, but his husband’s eyes don’t flit away. Essik just smiles, leaning closer over the table separating them, hands bracing on it. “That was _before_ I caused the manor to shake,” he says. “I do feel a _little_ bad about that, after all.”

“Just a little,” Bren echoes, and Essik’s smug smile widens. Bren feels himself shifting, not quite leaning over the table but still mirroring Essik’s stance. His eyes are glittering, bright against the light, and Bren could so _easily_ get lost in them, hates how _easily_ he indulges himself. _You can marry him but you have to love me_ , he thinks desperately, Jester’s words echoing in his head. But she _said_ he could be _close_ … “I didn’t know you felt anything like _guilt_.” He raises an eyebrow, and Essik _blinks_ for a moment, before his smirk widens into something that seems more real, more genuine.

“Oh, _so_ rarely.” Essik grins, tilting his head. Bren _knows_ Essik hates being disheveled, doesn’t find it attractive in the _least_ , but the way his hair frames his face right now _works_. His robes are looser, more rumpled and less layered, and it _works_. He looks _good_ , and Bren hates how charming he finds this all, how _charming_ he found his husband dejectedly sitting on the floor. He can’t quite believe he’s… teasing Essik while residuum sits in the same room, can’t believe he came _deeper_ into the room, and he doesn’t quite want to figure out yet what all this _means_. “But,” Essik continues, “I am a guest here.”

“… No, you aren’t.” Bren feels suddenly _ashamed_ standing here, _smiling_ here like everything is okay between them. _Scheisse_ , Essik was made to feel like a _guest_ here, and that’s… inexcusable. They’re _married_ , and as long as they are, this is his manor too. The fact that Bren hasn’t… made making Essik feel that way a priority is _horrible_ of him. He hasn’t done _nearly_ enough to repay all of Essik’s decency. _Allowed me to see Jester_ , Bren thinks, _allowed me to touch her, even if it was only a dream._ Essik is staring at him, and Bren shifts his jaw before speaking. “I am… _so_ lacking when it comes to being a husband, but we’re married, and…” He searches for the right words and _winces_ at the pause. _Oh_ , Master Ikithon’s _face_ if he could see this… “You aren’t a guest. This is your home too.”

Essik looks a little _surprised,_ but there’s a smile on his face, and he seems _pleased._ “I certainly didn’t mean to _offend_ , husband.” His voice gets warm as he says _husband_ , and Bren… likes the way Essik enunciates it, and _fuck_ , he’s truly _fucked_. It’s been months, and he’s been avoiding this, but… Essik is _charming_ , and all this is _working_ for Bren. He wants to shrivel up with guilt, imagining Jester who he cut the _Dream_ spell short with, and _Scheisse_ , he’s truly a wretched person. “I simply meant that it was rude of me to cause mild explosions in your”—he hesitates deliberately, and Bren _smiles_ —“ _our_ home.”

“It’s alright,” Bren promises, and _fuck_ , he _is_ leaning forward. Essik’s eyes are glittering on his face as they stare at each other, taking part in this delicate dance that is… definitely _strained_ , but not unwelcome. Bren _likes_ talking to him, _likes_ … flirting with him, and he has _no_ idea what the _fuck_ to do with this all. “Next time there are dangerous sounds coming from your lab, I’ll cast _Sending_ before bothering you.” _So I won’t have to see you play with residuum_ , he thinks.

_Fuck,_ it was so _painful_ when Master Ikithon wretched them out of his body, the surgeons careful with their cuts and Bren sitting on that surgical bed for _hours_ on end. _You’re no longer a soldier, my boy, you have no use for these_. The thought of a future without the shards to aid him in even his most _helpless_ of moments was too painful to contemplate, so he just closed his eyes, wanting this to be over, over, _over,_ let it be _over_ —

“That’s probably more efficient,” Essik admits, interrupting his thoughts. They’re _close_ , Bren _knows_ they’re close, and he thinks he could talk to Essik longer, even as he feels the conversation coming near to its natural conclusion. Essik seems hesitant _too_ , his words _also_ dragging, and Bren wonders how much of his considerations are based on his own desires, mildly disgusted by himself. “But I appreciate how quickly you came.”

Bren pulls _back_ from the table, trying not to think too much about the flicker of what seemed like _disappointment_ on Essik’s face. He turns to walk back to the doorway, and looks over his shoulder to smile at Essik. “I swear at least _some_ of my arrogance is earned, Essik.” The name is still strange on his tongue, but he finds he kind of likes those syllables on his tongue. _Gods_ , Bren thinks, _what is_ happening _to you?_

“I’m sure you’ll prove it to me someday.” Essik smirks, and that face isn’t _fair_ , what is Bren _doing_ here? Essik _also_ leans off the table, looking through the binders of notes stacked up there beside his spellbook, and Bren continues walking, right up until the doorway. 

He looks back to Essik once more, and his husband— _my husband,_ he thinks, astonished—looks up, sensing his gaze. He raises a white eyebrow, opening his mouth, perhaps to inquire on whether Bren _needs_ something, but Bren just smiles. “I’ll prove it to you if you’d like,” he says, and Essik’s eyes actually _widen_ as Bren nods to him, closing the door carefully as he exits out the laboratory. Bren hesitates there for a moment, looking to the closed door.

_Foolish_ , he thinks, grimacing to himself. Frumpkin stares up at him, and Bren exhales through his teeth, leaning down and picking up his familiar. He forces himself to walk, one foot after another, down the hall as his cat _purrs_ in his arms. He pets him, trying not to look at the black and purple flowers decorating the halls nor the Kryn-style abstract art hung up along the main hall that Imrae Theylas gifted them on their wedding night. It’s a gorgeous fantasia of reds, blues and whites, all sharp jagged strokes of the brush, and even _Jester_ stopped dead to examine them when Bren showed her in the _Dream_ spell.

_… Beautiful_ , she mumbled begrudgingly, before she began to talk about how much she _loved_ the way the colours and strokes _contrasted_ , and Bren smiled down at her as she stared at the piece. It reminded her of the sky, and when she asked Bren what it reminded _him_ off… all he could think of was prison bars, and when he said that, shoulders braced, she seemed to know this was something he was _absolutely_ not going to talk about. She just pulled him into a kiss, and he melted into her arms.

_Jester…_ what is Bren _doing?_ He can’t seem to control himself in _any_ regard, and he holds Frumpkin closer, trying to lose himself in how his cat purrs. Everything is a _mess_ , and he doesn’t know what to _do,_ but… he realizes there’s a _smile_ on his face. Despite everything, there’s a damned _smile_ on his face and he _hates_ it, _hates_ that despite everything, this was a _good_ day. Things were _deeply_ good for him today. Tomorrow he will meet Jester, and it would be so fucking _good_ for him tomorrow, too. He will meet Jester, who set aside her ideals for _him_.

He’s humming under his breath slightly, _excited,_ and _fuck_ , he hates this.

Frumpkin licks his face, and so Bren pays attention to _him_ as he walks back to his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to smokeandjollyranchers for helping me write some of the scene with Essik.
> 
> I wouldn't know where to start  
> Sweet music playing in the dark  
> Be still, my foolish heart  
> Don't ruin this on me
> 
> —Hozier, [_Almost (Sweet Music)_](https://open.spotify.com/track/5Apvsk0suoivI1H8CmBglv?si=up-SLUDmTJGFc_4KrVH-aA)


	5. Essik Theylas, Spring of 836 P.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T_T So it's been months. Needless to say, I'm still very invested in this narrative, it's just that real life gets in the way for a while sometimes. Thank you to everyone who's commented and stuck around, I'm glad you care about this story I'm putting together <3
> 
> There is some smut in this chapter!

It isn’t until the runes on the Enchanter glow green that Essik finally allows his tense shoulders to slump. They’ve been working on this for weeks, it’s fucking embarrassing that it’s taken so long to calibrate the magical energy the refined residuum emanated when put in the Enchanter and rays of conjuration energy were focused on it—Essik glares resentfully to the cylindrical machine sitting there in the middle of the room, thinking, _Thanks for nothing, you fucking tube_ —to finally display signs of the teleportation magic Essik was aiming for. For finally this dreadful chapter in his married life to be over. “Thank _fuck_ ,” he mumbles, hand reaching out for his cloak set against his chair. It flies into his grip, and he puts it on over his shoulders, feeling marginally more comfortable with the depthless black over him.

“It’s _finished_ ,” Lythir says with relief, opening the Enchanter to retrieve the jewel. The residuum glitters, more opaque than it had been when Essik first started fiddling with it. It vibrates lightly in Lythir’s grip, casting a rich green hue over his smooth brown skin, and the smile on his face widens as he closes his eyes, casting _Identify_ with his other hand and making abstract somatic gestures that cause glittering runes to appear around him. The arcane words stumble out past his parted lips, the exhaustion of their work getting to him—Essik told him to leave, and Lythir scoffed, saying, _I will when you will_ —and he opens his eyes, brown eyes glittering. “It really is finished, my lord.”

_I can give you access to all the Teleportation Circle installations in the major cities._ Essik grits his teeth as he remembers his conversation with Lavorre, looking ghostly in the moonlight that difficult night. Her eyes were so hard, so untrustworthy, and Essik wanted to bark out a laugh. _Why do you hate me so much? I’m not the one who’s too selfish to let go._ “Perfect,” he sighs, running a hand through his white hair and crossing his arms. Lythir begins the incantations to fire down the Enchanter, and Essik can’t help but glower at that little green rock, jaw clenching as he walks forward, reaching for it. It thrums in his hand, and he can feel that unstable, shaking conjuration magic, feel the waves of it in the air like ripples when he would step into a puddle as a child.

Lythir raises an eyebrow at him. His silver earrings look perfect framing his face, his hair tied back behind him—he cleaned up after the mess that sent Bren coming in to check in on him, Essik didn’t bother to—and he looks a lot more composed than Essik _feels_. It’s so strange, so awful, but the high he felt in Bren’s presence is now a crashing low. It’s more than a little likely that it’s because he’s making a gift for his mistress, a gift that will make her relationship with Bren so much easier, and he has no idea why he’s doing this, he really doesn’t—but he does, and sometimes he really does hate himself, hate his brand of arrogance, his type of pride, this compulsion to push and push and _push_. “Essik,” Lythir sighs, his voice turning a little more compassionate, more soft, as he looks to him.

That won’t do at all. Essik knows he’s become simpering, something a little—more than a _little_ —pitiful, but he squares his shoulders, grimacing at his friend. “We just need a good chain to attach to it,” he says, his fingers tightening around the trembling residuum. His voice is forcibly light, and allows his feet to dance off the ground, floating and looking disinterestedly down to Lythir. “Presentation is _everything_ , after all.” His jaw shifts, and his flat smile turns false, turns playful. “Let’s make this the prettiest gift she ever received.” Even as he says that, all he can think of is Bren kissing her, think of Bren’s rough, blackened fingertips running through her hair. No, there’s no way this rock could compare to that, and Essik realizes numbly he is in a mood. _Fuck_ , he thinks, almost bored.

“ _Essik_ ,” Lythir says again, his eyes narrowed up at him. His eyes flit to the rock glowing lightly in Essik’s hand, and he clenches his hands. His voice is harder now, more formal, and yes, this is something Essik knows how to deal with. He shifts his shoulders as he waits for Lythir to finish his sentence. “Why are you gifting this to her?” Essik raises an eyebrow, and Lythir rolls his eyes, crossing his own arms. “Forgive me, my lord, but… if she uses this for… heretical”—his lips twist at _heretical_ , Essik has to admire how Lythir can express his distaste for this country’s backwards laws with the light emphasis on a word—“purposes, that puts you at _risk_ , this all feels…” He searches for the right word, head tilting as he does, and Essik waits patiently. “Presumptuous on her intentions.”

_My wedding present to him. I hope you can bring yourself to stay, Lavorre_. Oh, _well_. That wasn’t strictly true when Essik said it, was it? He would’ve loved if Lavorre could just disappear, just live and thrive and be successful somewhere else, somewhere Bren couldn’t be with her, but in the brief time he’d spent with his husband since that night, he knew Bren would’ve been _heartbroken_ —and resentful. He would’ve had a resentful husband, who was practically impossible to woo, impossible to endear. How could Bren have loved him if he began to idealize a woman who wasn’t ever here, and blamed Essik for this perfect woman’s departure? No, he’d rather take the shining gratefulness in Bren’s eyes that Essik allows him to meet Jester at all, would rather accept Lavorre as a necessary evil and hope all her fucking imperfections would be enough for Bren to look past her—

—and is now beginning to realize that was a _foolish_ idea, is now realizing that Bren finds everything about her heavenly, everything from that smile he kept darting his eyes to during the wedding to her little prank that snowballed into all of this, into this marriage they’re all trying to negotiate and work through. Bren has never once laid the blame for his own dissatisfaction on Lavorre, and honestly, as much as that annoys Essik, he can’t help but… respect that. Because Bren has never quite laid the blame on _Essik_ , either. Only on… only on _himself,_ by the Luxon. And there’s another reason Lavorre has to stay—because beyond the private machinations and rituals undergoes to make sure Bren won’t unconsciously fucking hate him, it isn’t like Bren is going to talk to Essik about all the things that fucking haunt him.

Essik thinks sometimes that he hates Bren, hates Bren in the way he fears Bren hates _him_ , but Essik doesn’t, really—he knew about this fucking affair beforehand, and Essik’s own arrogance, and his own bullshit, drove him to this. His mother’s unconscious but still lilting insinuation that Essik wouldn’t be enough to block out the light of some mistress’ presence in Bren’s eyes made something in him tense, something in him brittle… and he’s entirely too fond of this imperfect man entirely too quickly, that’s on no one but _him_. He really doesn’t hate Bren, it’s someone else he hates, and it might be Lavorre, and it might be himself.

Essik realizes Lythir’s hand is on his, and that Lythir is gently pulling him down, reaching for that rock that shakes in his hand like a heartbeat. He watches with detached interest as Lythir pulls it away and gives him a gentle smile. _I want the hardness back,_ Essik thinks numbly. _I was the Shadowhand, I don’t need this softness from you_. “I’ll take care to make sure it is presented well,” Lythir promises, thumb running over the cool surface of the enchanted residuum. “And I’ll deliver it to her safely, my lord. I… I trust you know what you’re doing, Essik. I apologize for my presumptuousness in laying in my opinions on your marriage, you must get enough of that already.” He sounds genuine, his eyebrows furrowed like he _is_ embarrassed for himself.

_Oh, Lythir_. Essik looks at him tenderly for a moment, his feet lightly touching the ground. “Thank you for remembering your place,” he says, his voice soft. It really has been a nightmare between all his relatives trying to tell him how to play this, how to run this, like they deeply suspect he doesn’t know what he’s doing, which he has recently realized he doesn’t, but still, they’re fucking vultures who don’t know when to quit. “And thank you for your council.” Lythir nods his head at that, and Essik begins to glide to the door, stilling as he reaches the doorway. He remembers how beautiful Bren looked, standing here, and something in him seizes, something in his face twists. He looks back at Lythir over his shoulder, and he’s sure his smile is bitter. “… There is a reason I’m gifting this to her, and you’re right, it’s short-sighted.” Lythir watches, and Essik exhales, everything feeling light and breathless. _I’ll prove it to you if you’d like_ , Bren whispered, and _oh_ , that wasn’t fair. “Do you really wish to know?”

“… I would,” Lythir murmurs, his hand on his staff tightening as he watches Essik. He stares at Lythir’s thumb grazing the wood, stares at the little shifts in how Lythir stands, stares at that fucking residuum to drag this moment out, drag out the time before he reveals just how weak he is. “But only if you wish to tell me.” His gaze is intent on Essik at that, his jaw shifting. The silver of his hair frames his face so nicely, he’s so competent and put-together, like Essik is pretending at, like Essik used to be before all this, before Bren, before _—love,_ his traitorous conscious whispers, _before love, before you fell in love, you fell in love_ —this marriage.

“Because I want her at his fingertips,” Essik says numbly, his voice almost bored. Maybe if he plays at apathy it will make these words harsher, less _simpering_ , less _soft_ , less _heartbroken._ “Because I want him to have her, and then throw her away.” Lythir raises his eyebrows at that, and Essik smiles, shrugging just slightly, floating in the air. His cloak is still around him, draped perfectly on his body. “Because I want him to choose me, and not choose _her_. I want him loving me to be his _choice_ , VaSuun.” It’s strange how flat these words that have been ripping at him since Bren’s light teasing— _flirting_ , he doesn’t think, and then he thinks, because he can’t help himself, he used to be able to help himself—sound in the still air of his laboratory. “I’m not too good to want something better.”

Lythir watches him, and his shoulders slump slightly, after a moment. “Goodness… has entirely nothing to do with that,” he sighs. His dark eyes shine in the lantern light, his brown skin still cascaded in the green of the residuum, and Essik watches how his skin reflects the light, how the dark depthless black of his robes don’t. The contrast is grounding, it reminds him of home, reminds him of the dunamantic potential all these bastards in the Empire lack, and it makes him smug, makes that little emptiness gnawing at him a little more manageable. “And I think what you’re hoping for… might not happen.” Essik’s jaw shifts, because he knows, and at the same time he doesn’t, the Kryn play with destiny all the fucking time, if he can scorn the Raven Queen he can scorn some fucking mistress, and Lythir sighs, eyes flitting to the residuum. “I’m worried indulging in this fantasy will be harmful.”

Essik’s face twists _,_ and he hates how his lips are curving into a calculated fucking smile, hates how he doesn’t quite hate this at all. Lythir raises an eyebrow at his expression, and Essik shakes his head, crossing his arms and watching for a moment as the cloth of his robes wrinkles at the crooks of his elbows. “He’s my husband,” Essik says flatly, and listens to the way his voice lilts over _my_ for a moment, listens to the way that despite the way bitterness envelops over the quick syllable there’s still something… light in it. Trembling in it. He… likes Bren a lot, might even—and _oh_ , this hurts to think, he’s been so foolish with his heart— _love_ Bren. The word is like a bullet wound in his chest, the shockwaves rippling in his mind not unlike the way blood spreads on a cloak, making as much of the fabric sticky and heavy as much as it was possibly able. “ _Continue_ ,” he sighs, “to remember your place.”

Lythir nods once more, but his own lips twist a little as he turns, reaching for a cloth to cover up the enchanted residuum. His jaw is tense, and Essik feels the judgement behind him as he turns and heads out the door. Esiik pulls out his hand, and his cloak floats over to him, effortlessly draping over his shoulders as he heads out his laboratory. There are guards stationed along the hallway, there always has been, but these ones look a little terrified, not meeting Essik’s gaze as he walked down the arched halls, heels clicking against the hardwood. Essik takes a moment to admire the stained glass designs, admire how they cascade the interior of this stifling manor in gorgeous colour. There are odes to the gods—the _approved_ gods—and Essik finds himself wondering right then whether he could get Bren to agree to a design for the Luxon. He sighs to himself as he turns a corner, no longer deigning to walk and allowing his feet to hover up the stairs. It would be whites and purples, different shades that bloomed into a gorgeous cyclical pattern, and—

“Lord Theylas,” Essik hears behind him, and Essik curses himself for getting so lost in little housekeeping fantasies that he couldn’t quite pay attention to the stumbling footfalls until the intruder on his sulking until he cleared his throat. A young drow looks at him anxiously, her hair cut short and her expression worried. Essik raises an eyebrow elegantly, waiting for her to continue, and she thrusts her hands forward, a handful of mail in her grip. “ _They got lost_ ,” she stammers in Undercommon. “ _I apologize, sir._ ” 

Essik nods disinterestedly and raises his hand out, allowing the mail to float into his waiting hand one by one. The envelopes neatly order themselves into his waiting palm where they were messy and sweat-stained by the carrier’s anxious grip, and Essik exhales deeply, forcing himself to take a deep moment of restraining reflection before looking to the woman evenly. “ _Be better_ ,” he simply says, a soft warning with the slightest bit of an edge to it. He doesn’t look at the envelopes. Essik is a little too well-practiced to show too much overt interest in anything, and this is no exception.

He ignores the voice inside his head that cackles, _This is not the exception. The exception is blue-eyed, and red-headed, with soft lips you imagine stretched around your—_

Essik, as a person, knows he often skirts the line between prideful and shameless. In this… it is no exception. He’s shameless and prideful _for_ his exception. It’s… dreadful and it’s embarrassing and it’s _hot_ , and Essik has never been the one to write poetry, he stuck to the sciences, but… _my exception_ , he thinks, as the drow nods to him once more, face flushing under Essik’s judgement. _My beautiful, strange little exception_. He thinks of how Bren’s eyes seemed to run over him with just his normal form-fitting clothes on, what he wears underneath the cloak, and it’s kind of funny how he closes his eyes for just that moment, trusting himself to the darkness in a den full of watchers and back-stabbers. Bren is both. His heart seems to crumple into itself and expand in his chest all at once. Bren is both.

Bren cares for both.

He opens his eyes, glowering at nothing in particular and then glowering at a vase. He continues on his errands, snapping the mail away to an extraplanar dimension for later viewing.

* * *

Reading the Rosohna Scientific Journal, horrifyingly, did not do what it was intended to do. The sleek text in Undercommon that Essik has long associated with familiarity, with structure, with _sense_ , does not do anything to quell the misery that seeps into even Essik’s mere movement, his pace sluggish as he floated along the upper levels of Bren’s manor. _Their manor_ , he corrected himself as he thought that, and that actually did send a trill down his spine, the fact that Bren, for all the complications in their marriage, considers this place _theirs_. He can’t… believe that he allowed himself to get so snippy with Lythir, only managing to snap, _He’s my husband_ , to the legitimate points that Lythir raised at Essik’s invitation. Lythir is… too good. He followed Essik to this Luxon-forsaken country, and he’s dealt with Essik’s ups-and-downs that he even represses— _especially_ represses—from Bren. He invoked his rank inappropriately, and he needs to make nice with his only friend in Blumenthal.

All the journal reminded him of was his mother, back home. This was something they shared in, and she had a habit of marking the text with her pen as she read. Essik as a child was resentful of this, and would often insist that he be allowed a separate copy or at least get to read it first. He stated this to his mother with his little face twisted into an insistent frown and his arms crossed, and his mother raised one eyebrow in a way he knows he often does too now, unconsciously imitating the most impressive person he knew. His mother’s lips twitched, a tell-tale sign she allowed herself to express in front of Essik that she was hiding a laugh, and Essik’s frown only deepened. She did not give him his own copy of the journal, and he in turn was extremely cross with her for several weeks.

It’s a nice thought, thinking of those weeks and how he would refuse the little gifts she offered him to try to make up the gap. He began to not read them, right up until he found out his—and this is embarrassing, _fuck_ — _infatuation_ in primary school was in love with another person. Another girl. Essik searched their home up and down for books he hadn’t yet read, and all he could get ahold of were the last three issues of his mother’s copies of the journal. He practically tore through them, and suddenly his mother’s marks with her black pen—distant and cold academic critiques written in the densest of jargon—were as interesting to him as the text themselves. Suddenly it felt nice for reading to not be something so solitary.

His mother still tells the story of how she found him curled up sleeping with half-open books in her office, and how his small little hands clutched at them when she tried to pull them away. It always causes an uproarious laugh, and Essik is a little too endeared by his mother to seriously tell her to quit it. Even as his face flushes he holds his head up high.

Essik shuts the journal now, head feeling all spinning and awful as he slumps onto the couch to one of the living rooms. He’s alone here, bookshelves adorning the walls and a fireplace that he could light in an instance with the snap of his fingers. He feels even too self-pitying to do that, and this is what finally convinces him to snap his fingers for _another_ purpose—the letters. They flutter out past the void that moment the sound of his fingers against each other break through the silence, and they collapse all out onto the glass table in front of the couch where Essik inelegantly sprawls. He forces himself to sit up straight, and with a few movements of his fingers has the envelopes straightened and on top of each other, neat and tidy where before they were scattered. He rubs his palms together for a moment, feeling dunamantic potential crackle at the contact, and then reaches for the pile.

There are very few things as distracting as reading one's correspondences.

The first is from the Rosohna Dunamantic Society, inquiring on his availability right before Winter's Crest. They'd like him to give a presentation, and _oh_ , Essik feels like his every nerve is already alight with ideas he could bring to the table, some new controlled display of the theories he'd been working through. Maybe he could drag a younger version of himself through time, a more remote Essik from during the war, from when he was even prouder. Maybe he could provide a little insight, momentary as it would be given that the younger Essik would forget as soon as he returned to his proper time, that there _was_ an end to this conflict, and that it _was_ worth fighting for. Looking at a sea of delighted faces and knowing they wouldn't have to live through a time of constant warfare. That Essik himself didn't have to live through a time of constant warfare.

He thinks about the spy in the sewer all the time.

The second is from… a smile spreads on his lips. He pulls pictures out from the envelope, little painted cards with Zeerith, his cousin's adorable little _monster_ , Essik mumbled good-naturedly as his Imrae and Jevan cooed over the drow baby, looks being shot Essik’s direction that Essik _knew_ were lilting little insinuations. _Where’s yours, Essik?_ Zeerith is playing with a toy horse in these, holding it tight in his chubby hand while his other holds a rattle. The child is _obsessed_ with the thing, and in another picture is the three of them—Brada with her husband, their hands intertwined and tightly clasped with Zeerith in Dinin’s lap. He holds the rattle still, and it’s all so wholesome and perfect that Essik has to sit back just a little, breathing through his nose.

Dinin’s eyes glow when he watches Brada, and Essik is sick with jealousy. Not in want of his cousin’s husband, but in the want of that _light_. He thinks for a moment how lovely it must be to be loved with reckless abandon, loved enough to risk potentially fucking _everything_. Brada spurned the elders of their house with her marriage, picking an unapproved outsider, and Essik really does think it’s quite incredible how his own sham marriage is more recognized than Brada’s. At least her husband loves her. At least she doesn’t feel her gut writhe with confusion and desire every time Dinin smiles at her or leans closer, that wretched voice in her head singing, _He loves me, he loves me not…_

Essik puts the photographs back in the envelope and resolves to get picture frames so that he may look at his cousin’s endless delight. Then he casts _Sending_ , running through the customary greeting before saying in accusation, “Your subtle judgement game has gotten stronger, cousin.” He allows a pause between his words, and then runs a hand through his hair, feeling a soft smile spread over his lips. He then says, more genuinely, “He’s beautiful. I can’t believe you kept him still for a painting.”

Brada’s response is _immediate_. “Ah, so you’ve seen them.” She sounds incredibly smug, and Essik can just imagine her cocking her head that way she tends to when she feels like she’s come out on top of something. “I expect them lovingly adorning one of the manor’s living rooms, Essik, they were so sparse when I visited last.” Essik scoffs to himself, even though he privately agrees as he looks around the room he’s residing in currently— _his_ room, Essik reminds himself, _his_ manor, _his_ home, as much his as it is Bren’s—that Zeerith’s photos could quite dramatically liven this space up. Everything is so stuffy and all the colours are muted, which Essik isn’t completely against, but so many of these rooms look… so unlived in. Less like a space someone inhabits and more for presentation.

Essik is trying to remember the address of his favoured artist contacts in Rosohna to perhaps commission some designs for a heavy and vibrant tapestry to adorn a wall when he suddenly hears Brada’s voice in his head, another _Sending_ spell. This one is from _her_ side, and Essik braces himself for another loving tale about how happy she is in her married life when her _tone_ startles him out of his haze. “I remembered something strange. I thought about your home and… I visited Archmage Ikithon recently as an ambassador.” Brad’s voice is cold as she says Bren’s teacher’s name, and Essik winces in sympathy. He cannot imagine what it must be like to work with such a… presumptuous person. “His home and Bren’s are stylistically identical.”

Essik blinks. Oh. _Oh_. That isn’t… surprising, but it’s kind of an incredibly sad little detail to know. Trent Ikithon… rubs Essik the wrong way, there’s something unsettling in the way he watches Essik sometimes in those dinners Bren invites him to, completely cordial but talking around him, voice slightly derisive as he picks up on little details Essik strategically drops. He at one time mentioned the Dunamantic Society and Ikithon fucking _stilled_ , telling Essik all he needed to know about where Ikithon’s priorities laid. That blatant self-serving selfishness was something Essik could deal with, deal _in,_ easily, he knows how to manage himself, manage expectations.

It’s how he looks at Bren that Essik can’t stand.

He doesn’t like the way Ikithon pulls Bren aside, doesn’t like the way that Bren’s voice drops into a cold and lilting hiss when a guard particularly annoys him, putting on a mask he’s had too much time to perfect. He hates the patronizing pride on Ikithon’s face, and the way it makes Bren’s shoulders drop almost imperceptibly in relief. He hates how Bren doesn’t give Essik small half-smiles in Ikithon’s presence that don’t feel false, don’t feel calculated, don’t feel like their wedding day when Bren looked ready to crawl on top of Essik and just _fuck_ him. It’s horrible. It makes something in his gut clench, and only deepens the _urge_ he feels sometimes, to just shake Bren’s shoulders and say, rather desperately, _This isn’t normal, the way you are with him isn’t normal, just let me help, just let me in—_

“Let’s just _say_ ,” Essik says carefully, because this is his marriage and he won’t let there be any leaks on his own end, even to his dear and beloved and well-meaning cousin. “That Zeerith’s pictures shall make it onto our living rooms.” He takes a deep breath, thinking coldly for a moment that if Bren’s inviting him to alter this wretched building, to twist its meaning from an ode to one of the most unpleasant people Essik has ever had the privilege of meeting, then Essik _will_ alter it. Essik will make it his own home, too. He wonders if Ikithon would be okay with a stained glass piece dedicated to the Luxon, if he ever saw it. Bren could twist a tale to make it palatable, and Essik hates that he feels like he has to. “Thank you for the pictures, Brada.”

Essik moves onto the next letter.

* * *

Essik snaps his fingers five minutes later, and throws the letter into the fireplace.

* * *

His mind is a little blank with rage, and he doesn’t want to think about how long it’s been. He doesn’t want to think too hard about the way Orim signs his name all these years later, the ink slightly darker around the _m_. He always puts more pressure on the pen at the end of a word, it’s one of those intricacies Essik as a child would memorize as he read and reread the same words in cursive, waiting for responses in the mail that wouldn’t come.

He was an intrepid child, finding ways to contact his father from birth behind his mother’s back while she was at work. Stealing her stamps as discreetly as he could manage and waiting by the porch for the mail deliverer, intercepting them before the servant could reach for them. For those months, Essik took to giving Imrae her letters, but though she thought it was because he wanted to step up and take responsibility for the household, his true intent was so much more selfish in nature.

He didn’t want any correspondence to Orim to be caught. Mother would’ve disallowed the contact, and that was… unacceptable. She _did_ stop the correspondence, but only when Essik angrily confronted her about how she managed to stop Essik’s letters from reaching him. He was so _angry_ , he remembers the pressure of his jaw clenched, remembers his nails digging into his palm from how angrily his hands were curled into little fists. _You can’t do that_ , he snapped at her, and every word was heavy with anger. There was wetness in his eyes he was hiding, but from how Imrae’s face softened, Essik is very certain that she knew he was one harsh word away from breaking into tears. Which would’ve been further unacceptable to him.

_I didn’t_ , she said evenly, her entire frame so still that even her pearl earrings didn’t dangle. Her voice was soft, even as her jaw was clenched, and though Essik as a child spit out an accusation of lying before running up the stairs and locking himself in his room, he knew that those two words weren’t deceiving. Imrae didn’t deceive him, not ever, not now and not then, and soon it was less anger that he was hiding away from her and more shame, more embarrassment for how he couldn’t control the modulation of his voice and words that he allowed to cross bitingly out his lips. When he found her later, arms around her and face buried in her dress, extremely small even for an eight year old, his apology was cold and stilted and _scared_. He was scared she wouldn’t forgive him. His mother only said, just as matter-of-factly, just as honestly, _You’re forgiven._

Then she cut Essik a piece of cake and Essik, the words stumbling past themselves in a rush to reveal the crushing secrets he’d been keeping all this time, just talked and talked and _talked._

Essik wonders if he should bring himself as a child in front of the Dunamantic Society. Give himself a moment of reprieve and tell that little boy Orim’s letter would return far, far too late. The sad thing is, he thinks it might’ve momentarily put back together that kid’s broken heart.

He watches the letter burn, and tries to forget the passages of text he only read through once.

* * *

Essik’s sleep is quite miserable, like the rest of his day was, and so he’s in an irritable mood when he turns to Bren the next morning. He actually remembers the dream he had, and the only thing that makes his recounting of it _miserable_ was how long it took for him to finally manage some sleep. He was turning and tossing on his bed, annoyed by the sheets and the blanket and the moonlight streaking through the window, to the point where he was awake when even Bren made his way back to their chambers. _Their_ chambers. The thought made his lilting and ridiculous heart warm, nearly like it was _singing_ , as Bren undressed, taking off his lush red cape that too closely resembled the hue of dried-out blood. It looked good against his skin regardless, and though Essik didn’t want to be strange about it… Bren is his husband after all. So he watched, and Bren actually gave him a teasing smile, hesitating for a moment before pulling off his gloves. Essik didn’t watch his hands as he crawled into the bed beside him, reaching for a blanket and cocking his eyebrow at Essik’s watching gaze.

“You’re awake,” Bren said, after a halting moment. His voice didn’t betray judgement, if there was any—his eyes were just a little more careful than they were this afternoon, having receded into himself after their light— _flirtatious_ , Essik thought, torturing himself with the vision of that open mirth in those blue eyes—back-and-forth. His hair was mussed, messy, and Essik resisted the urge to run his hands through it, fixing it for him. It’s a strange balance they had, and Essik thought for an exceedingly bitter moment that Lavorre would’ve just gone for it, would’ve just done whatever the hell she wanted. It’s what she does, wasn’t it? Putting on a red dress at his wedding—and it _was_ his wedding, not just Bren’s, he remembers how Imrae was practically seething while he managed mere amusement on behalf of the gag, but _fuck you, Jester Lavorre, it was my wedding_ —and using _Dream_ to dance over his own line in the sand.

“I’m awake,” Essik responded simply, ignoring his own thread of thought, his hair messy from how he kept shifting positions in bed. Bren’s lips pulled into a smile, this expression of momentary unguarded _fondness_ before he turned and pulled an arm up to brace his head against a pillow. Essik watched his back for a moment, watched the way Bren pulled into himself just as often these days as he extended the merest of olive branches. He could continue on this conversation, keep pulling on this thread, but he was a little tired of little olive branches. He didn’t know how the fuck he was going to keep at this, _continue_ at this, and though he knew he would feel more confident again in the morning, right now he simply wanted to curl into himself. “Good night, Bren,” he said, almost miserably. Essik Theylas was tired of thoughts about lost fathers and far-away mothers and distant husbands and cautious friends. He was _sick_ of it.

“Good night,” Bren whispered, after a moment. There was a stillness to his body, like for a moment he might actually ask something else, but then he kept silent. Essik watched the way his red hair looked muted in the moonlight for a traitorous moment, and then closed his eyes, finally managing, Luxon help him, into a dreamless sleep.

At first.

Then his dreams took a turn, turned to Bren being on top of him, and palming Essik’s cock. Essik was moaning breathlessly with this reckless abandon he’s _never_ showed Bren in real life, watching slender fingers blackened at their ends curled around his cock and pumping him. “ _Good_ ,” Bren murmured in Undercommon, and wasn’t that just sweet of him, Essik imagining a a scenario where Bren learns Undercommon to croon to him in the middle of _fucking_ him? If Bren ever bothers to learn his language it will be to catch the exchanges he and Lythir through at each other as they walk down the halls, not out of some desire to… _romance_ him. This sequence of thoughts only occurs the following morning, but not as Bren aligned himself, not as Bren pushed _in,_ the pace slow and his eyes gentle. Gentle but unyielding.

Imagining Bren’s fingers digging into his hips, bruising his skin as his lips trail along his collarbone, whispering praise as he starts to _thrust…_ it was perfection. It was perfection, and Essik imagined a flush along Bren’s pale neck as his hair fell forward, red dragging against Essik’s skin as he continued to mark Essik’s jaw. Continued to tighten his fingers on Essik’s cock, fingers slick with oil as Essik shuddered under him. Thumb running over the head and fingers trailing along the side, insistent and timed to Bren’s thrusts right up until Essik was writhing in place, pressed up between the bed and his husband. _My husband_ , he thought, _my husband, my husband, my husband_. “ _My husband_ ,” Bren whispered, and then he kissed Essik, teeth against Essik’s own and tongue running along the inside of Essik’s mouth. Absolutely _claiming_ , absolutely _wanting_.

Essik came in his dream, hips bucking into the warm tightness of Bren’s grip, and remembers now how his thighs were trembling as Bren came against them. Bren kissing him softly, sweetly, saying, “ _You look splendid, my husband_ ,” eyes bright, eyes mirthful, eyes reverent—

And so, when Essik wakes up, immediately turning to Bren with the most _irritated_ look on his face, Bren’s eyes are wide, confused as he sits up. He runs a hand through his hair and Essik refuses to allow himself to be distracted by that, feeling some stinging loss as he watches the distance between himself and Bren for a moment. “You may fuck your mistress,” Essik says simply, and Bren _stills_. His eyes only widen, this lovely blue reflecting the soft light that comes with the morning haze. The sunlight makes the white of their rumpled bed sheets glow, and Essik ignores it, ignores the incredule and… and _is that worry, Bren Aldric Ermendrud?_ Essik thinks with bitter amusement, getting up off the bed and floating up to his double-doored closet. He gives Bren a soft smile over his shoulder. “I’m not your jailkeeper, do what you wish.”

Bren just _stares_ at him, and then… absurdly, he gets up, following after Essik right up until they’re two feet away. He’s looking up, watching Essik’s face, and Essik keeps his expression pleasant, his lips quirked up, not letting the surprise at Bren’s furrowed eyebrows show in the gleam of his own eyes. “I never claimed you were,” Bren says, his accent a little thicker on his voice in the bleariness of the morning. “Are you… _sure_?” He clenches his jaw and looks like, for a moment, he might actually reach for Essik. Touch him. “How long have you been thinking about this?” There’s some genuine relief in his voice, which makes more sense than the concern in his expression, and Essik wishes he could hate him for it.

“I’m sure,” Essik says, watching Bren’s white shirt for a moment. It’s as pale as the bed sheets. Virginal and pure, almost. The blood-red cape will seep into their conversation soon enough, and Bren, without the morning throwing him off-kilter, will see this as the chess game they’ve always been playing, just another surprising move made by the opponent on the opposite side of the table. Essik doesn’t want to be the opponent, doesn’t know _what_ he wants. Just not to be Bren’s fucking keeper. “Ever since we got married, Bren. I wasn’t lying when I said I would eventually trust you to keep your affair”—Bren’s eyelid twitches at affair, how very _interesting_ —“from exploding on both of our faces.” Bren’s face becomes a little more impenetrable, and Essik blinks, looking away. “You’ve been unhappy,” he nearly whispers.

Bren is silent for a moment, and Essik knows _why_. This is… uncharacteristically open conversation, for the two of them, even if it’s rife with meaning and calculated moves and history. “You’ve been unhappy,” Bren repeats, and then, quickly, like he’s doing it before he changes his mind, he reaches out to touch the crook of Essik’s elbow. The momentary warmth of the touch, blackened skin against his clothed arm, is startling, and Essik exhales as Bren takes a step closer, gently pulling Essik until he’s less remote in the air. “Are you… okay?” Bren searches his face, and Essik feels himself retreating in, making his eyes flatter and his jaw more clenched. It’s funny how the less Bren gives, the easier it is to throw himself at his feet. “Essik.” He says his name like it’s a prophecy, almost. He says it almost the way that Bren did in his dream, holding Essik like some cherished treasure.

Almost.

Essik just shrugs. “I have work to do.” He’s already readying his apology to Lythir, already far away from this room, far away from Bren and his rare touch. He sighs, shoulders dropping as Bren raises an eyebrow, and gives him the weakest little smile. “You know,” he whispers, his voice gentle, “I don’t want to be your jailkeeper because I want to be your husband.” Bren looks like a deer caught in the headlights, and Essik decides, thinking, _Fuck it_ , that it wouldn’t hurt things anymore to just raise a hand, to just touch Bren’s cheek. Bren looks a little distraught, looks a little strange, looks a little… almost _hopeful_? Mostly confused, Essik can tell by the way he swallows a little. Even through Bren’s armour, Essik can tell at least that. “And I want you to choose me the right way.” Essik tilts his head, his smile kind of embarrassed. “I’m prideful that way, husband.” _My husband._

_My exception_.

“I like your pride,” Bren breathes, and his voice is so strangely earnest that Essik for a moment considers telling him about the letter he burnt the other day. Bren might find something about the entire charade poetic.

Then Essik just pulls away, and retreats out the door. There are guards out, and so Essik does not look back as he shuts the door— _too well-practiced_ , he chides himself, _you don’t know what you’ll do with him if he allows you to have him_ —and he does not close his eyes and lean against the wall like he kind of wants to.

He simply descends down the stairs.

* * *

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he mumbles to Lythir later. The two of them are in the kitchen, and they are raiding the pantry. He managed his apology, face burning as he said simply that _I should not have baited you into upsetting me, it was manipulative and I’m not mad at you._ He kept his gaze on Lythir’s face, forcing himself not avert his eyes, and twisted the ring on his finger, the cool sensation of his pearly arcane focus bracing against his fingers. It was in the laboratory, the arcane lights harsh against the angles of Lythir’s shadowed face, and Essik found himself absurdly worried that his and Lythir’s close partnership would be somehow… altered by one difficult conversation.

_You’re forgiven_ , Lythir said simply, easily. Then he asked Essik to follow him, and Essik gladly did, cape trailing in the air as he watched the back of Lythir’s head, examined the intricacies of his braid and the embroidered designs of his clothes. Now they’re eating this strange Empire-style cake, and it’s not… bad. The frosting is white, and Lythir hums under his breath, swallowing his bite as he sits in silence, considering what Essik just said. “You don’t have to be mad at yourself for being lost,” he says, and Essik tenses. “You don’t.”

“I’m not.” He keeps his voice even. Lythir just takes another bite from the cake on his plate, and Essik’s shoulders sink as Lythir just raises an eyebrow, dark brown eyes knowing and sympathetic. “Thank you.” He manages to murmur this, a bare acknowledgement of the storm but not allowing it to spill out like water against a failing dam.

“It’s going to be okay,” Lythir continues, and he takes another bite.

“Thank you,” Essik repeats, and his voice kind of breaks. Lythir doesn’t comment, and Essik loves him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus  
> When her body was found  
> I'd be the choiceless hope in grief  
> That drove him underground  
> I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee  
> That made him turn around  
> And I'd be the immediate forgiveness  
> In Eurydice
> 
> Imagine being loved by me
> 
> —Hozier, [_Talk_](https://open.spotify.com/track/6ctlpLPyLH3R1V16fxoOWE?si=bhw_3hm4St-6WnAYAE622A)


End file.
